Painted Hearts
by sparrow-on-a-shoulder
Summary: AU: Sherlock is a painter in 19th Century Paris. John is a military officer who came to Paris to look for a future wife. When they meet, they form a friendship that helps them both see what really matters in art and in life... Artistic Bohemia and all of that, names of actual historical figures (French painters) appear. Rated M for further development.
1. Spring in Paris

Paris, 1863

Part 1.

Spring was delightful that year, the air was filled with the smell of freshly cut flowers that men were selling on the streets and with the scent of coffee and warm bread coming from every little coffeehouse, and you could find those around every corner. Sherlock Holmes was walking down Rue de Rivoli, dressed in a navy-blue velvety suit and a white shirt with a rich, lacy collar. His walking stick was knocking on the pavement and crushing little green leaves fallen from the trees. Warm sunlight was flickering through the glorious rose window of the church of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois and Sherlock thought that it looked more like some prince's palace than the house of God. He passed the church and stood in front of the Louvre Palace. He narrowed his eyes as he was examining the statues on the façade, the stone they were made of was lighter, and since he first saw them he thought that they look like living people, so graceful and magnificent, ancient gods ready to step down from their pedestals any minute. Familiar voice shook him out of this reverie.

"People think many things about you, Sherlock, but I bet they would never say that you're a dreamer."

Sherlock turned around to face the man that spoke to him in French, in a strong, resonant voice. He was tall, with longish, wavy brown hair, and bushy beard. His eyes were bright and the way he was smiling revealed great wisdom. Although he was in his forties he still had signs of his passed youth visible in his friendly, ruddy face.

"And I could be anything that pleases the crowd but never a dreamer, I think you are well aware of that," Sherlock answered him and reached out with his hand to greet the man. "How are you today, Gustave?"

"Lovely day, isn't it?" Gustave shook Sherlock's hand firmly. "Lovely day for daydreaming, my friend. I can see you didn't give up your hopes. I'm telling you, Sherlock, the more you hope, the more disappointed you'll be," Gustave sighed but was still smiling.

"I told you, dreams and hopes are for fools, not for me," Sherlock put his gloves on as the gentle but chilly wind started to blow – "I am just passing by on my way to Porte-Saint-Martin, care to join me?".

"So, why are you going there?" asked Gustave as the two men were walking along.

"The courier brought me a message from Inspector Lestrade. Apparently there has been a body found in the Canal" Sherlock said.

"Ahh, going to make some sketches?"

"Precisely."

"Good thing you have a friend in the police, I remember how Daumier told me how he must've bribed a lot of people to study crime scenes for his _Rue Transnonain *_. Any particular composition you're working on?"

"_Judith Beheading Holofernes **_".

"Biblical theme! _You_?!" Gustave was honestly surprised.

Sherlock said nothing to that, so after a longer pause Gustave picked up the topic again.

"As I said, you are, in fact, a dreamer. You're really thinking they'll accept it if you'll make a biblical scene!"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said eventually and frowned.

"You paint _dead bodies_! And not in a way that that bunch of dilettantes in powdered wigs from the Academy paint dead bodies. Your paintings are not nice and sweet, your bodies are not porcelain white, fragile and pure, bowed in ecstasy of martyr's death and decorated with flowers. Yours are… real. Dirty, swollen, bruised, wounded, broken, there is blood, but not graceful red strings running gently down the milky skin of Saint Cecille, pools of blood…"

"This is how it looks in real life, Gustave," Sherlock interrupted him.

"Well, of course! You don't have to explain that to _me_, you know I admire the truth and brutal realism in your works. But Sherlock, this is why I had to prepare my own exhibition back in 1855, they didn't want to see realism on the world's fair, the jury turned me down. Do you think the jury of the Royal Academy will be more favourable for you? Only because you'll make it into a biblical theme? It'll still be realism."

"They will be thrilled, Gustave, don't you understand?" Sherlock stopped in the middle of the street. "Everything on this painting is perfect. Every detail matches, I thought every little thing through, every stain of blood, every curl of hair, every inch of steel cutting through the flesh, every wrinkle of fabric, everything is just perfect. It's as if… as if it's alive! They will think they are witnessing an actual carnage! It looks exactly how it would look like in real life, back then. No lies, no adornments, just the pure, true life. No one had ever painted like this before, I will be the sensation of this Salon ***. And my painting will be forever hanging in Louvre," Sherlock's eyes were wide and sparkling when he said these words.

"Oh, I wish for you to achieve this, my friend, I really do," Gustave grabbed Sherlock's shoulders like a proud father, but his eyes were showing sadness as he knew this young passionate man in front of him was about to go through a great disappointment, "I have to go now, Sherlock, but I'm really looking forward to see these sketches you're about to make today. Will you visit me tomorrow?"

"I can't tomorrow. LeBlancs are having a dinner party and I'm invited."

"LeBlancs? And you're invited?"

"Yes, my father's name still has that power. He used to be very well respected before he passed away, so is now his other son. Thankfully he lives in London and no one here knows that I am not, in fact, Mycroft's favourite little brother," Sherlock smiled wickedly.

"Have a good time then, and visit me some time this week, I'm very curious about these drawings of yours," Gustave hugged him friendly and they said goodbye to each other.

Sherlock turned right and walked away into the direction of Port-Saint-Martin. Gustave Courbet **** was standing there for a moment, looking at Sherlock's slim figure. Gentle wind blew through the streets and brought him a scent of wet grass from the bank of the Seine. He was thinking about the times when he himself was so young and full of confidence, when he believed in his own talent, and hoped to change the world of art. He saw the reflection of himself in Sherlock's sparkling eyes and he understood that the cruel critique of the Royal Academy is about to destroy another talented artist.

"They'll never understand him," Courbet said quietly to himself and walked away in the opposite direction.

Part 2.

John Watson was sitting in his study, trying to focus on a letter he was writing, but the view outside the window, his desk was standing next to, was successfully distracting him. He absent-mindedly rubbed his shoulder, it still hurt him sometimes, even though it was the fifth year after he was wounded during the Sepoy Mutiny. He was wearing white shirt with wide sleeves, light-brown vest, matching brown trousers and knee-high officer's boots. He was expecting his friend, Michael, to visit him. Michael Stamford was his old friend, they came to Paris together about two years ago and now Michael was coming back to London, John hoped he could take the letter with him and deliver it to John's father. He seemed more confident than the official post office. But John still couldn't finish the letter, he didn't know how to explain to his father that he still hasn't found a candidate for his future wife. Eventually he just wrote a few casual words and silently hoped that his father wouldn't inquire any further. When he was sealing the envelope, a knocking on the door reverberated around the room.

"Please come in!" shouted John in English and turned to face the door where he expected to see Michael, but it turned out to be his butler, Jacques.

"Ah, Jacques," John said in French this time and smiled in apology for shouting, "what is it?"

"Sir, there is a young lady waiting for you downstairs." – answered Jacques in a formal tone.

"A young… young lady?" John was noticeably surprised. "Did she introduce herself?"

"Yes sir, it's lady Sarah Luise LeBlanc."

"Oh… yes, yes umm… please tell her I'll be there in a minute."

When Jacques disappeared behind the closed door John walked from the study to his bedroom to collect his jacket and cane. After a longer moment he was, now fully dressed, walking down the stairs to meet lady Sarah. Walls of his apartment, with light wallpapers with floral pattern, were echoing his footsteps and the knocking of his cane on the white, marble stairs. Sun, that was flickering through the high windows and reflecting in a crystal chandelier, was brightening up the hall downstairs, making lady Sarah's blonde hair look like gold, the impression intensified by the pale peach colour of her dress.

"Lady Sarah, I'm so sorry you had to wait," John greeted her and bowed, taking her gloved hand to place there a kiss. "I didn't expect you to visit, I thought I'll see you tomorrow at your parents' dinner party."

"Captain Watson," lady Sarah answered with a greeting smile, her voice was deep but gentle and lilting, and she had this kind of sophisticated accent that characterizes aristocracy, "this is exactly the reason why I'm here. I know we sent official invitations to all the guests, but I wanted to make sure you'll do us this honour and be at the party."

"Oh, my lady, I couldn't possibly miss it, I assure you. To give up such a delightful company of yours, I would have to be a mad man."

"I'm very glad. My parents are counting on you as well, please don't disappoint us."

"I'll be there, I would ask you to save the first dance for me, but you know…" John patted his leg with a cane to emphasize these words.

"Please, Captain Watson, I'll save every dance for you, even if it means that I'll be just sitting next to you on a sofa and listen to the music."

"I couldn't be happier," said John as he was seeing her to the door. "See you tomorrow, then," he kissed her hand again.

"Goodbye."

The second John closed the door behind lady Sarah his face changed. Forced smile disappeared and gave up the place for a grimace of discontent. Now he had to go to this party, and spend the whole evening accompanying lady Sarah as she did, after all, visit him especially to make sure he'd come. She was obviously interested in him, and he knew that her parents would approve of him, and he felt that it to be a really a big pressure on him. He didn't have much time to think about it though, because soon Michael appeared by the door.

"Hello old chap!" Michael said loudly. "What's with that troubled face?"

"Welcome, Stamford. Glad you could make it. It's really important for me that my father receives this letter."

"Oh, any big news you're going to announce?" Michael raised his eyebrows, smiling.

"Not really, on the contrary, to be honest."

They passed to the drawing room and sat on the sofas next to the fireplace. John rang for the butler and ordered him to bring the letter from the study.

"I know my father is starting to be impatient in the matter of my marriage, I'm kind of hoping that letter will calm him down for a while," John explained. "I wrote to him about lady Sarah LeBlanc. I don't really have any serious plans about her, but maybe such thing will please my father and it'll give me some peace for a longer while."

"John, maybe you should consider lady Sarah seriously?" Michael said. "You see, she's from a good, well respected family, like yours, she's young, beautiful, smart… well, no offence chap, but with your wound from India you're no longer such a good husband material like you used to be. Opportunity like this may not happen again. Isn't it the reason why you came here in the first place? To find yourself a lady whose parents would want to use her to make a connection with a rich English family?"

"No, this is the reason why _my father_ wanted me to come here. I have never said I want to get married, and moreover, I have never said I want to be treated like damaged goods and that I only have an opportunity to marry because some French snob wants to have more money," John was noticeably irritated, but the entrance of Jacques interrupted him.

John took the letter from Jacques and handed it to Michael.

"Give my regards to my sister, would you?"

"Of course," Michael patted John's back and left.

John returned upstairs, to his study. He leaned his cane against the chair and took off his jacket. Looking through the window he was, once again, unconsciously rubbing his shoulder, and thinking about the sympathetic looks that dancing couples will be giving him the next day at the party, while he'll be just sitting there with that bloody cane in his hand.

"Maybe I _should_ marry her…" John didn't even notice that he said it out loud. "Who else would want me?" The question sounded in the empty room as John took a look at his cane.

* * *

NOTES:

* Honore Daumier, Rue Transnonain  
** Judith and Holofernes is a common art theme. The biblical story tell us about Judith of city Bethulia which was attacked by Holofernes' army. Further explanation will come in next chapters.  
*** Salon de Paris was an official art exhibition for the members of the Academy of Fine Arts and Royal Academy, works shown there were restrictively selected by the jury.  
**** Gustave Courbet, french painter, leader of Realist movement


	2. Night in Saint-Germain

The LeBlancs' residence was located on Rue Cardinale in a district of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Monsieur LeBlanc hired a famous Italian architect and lavished money on making his mansion look just splendid. The stucco on a façade, smooth and pale yellow in colour, was contrasting with white fluted pilasters and sculpted festoons, wide windows were framed with gypsum cupids, and two slender caryatids were carrying the front tympanum. John's carriage drove through the gate and slowly made its way along the gravely alley with rows of cherry trees growing on both sides. It was a warm, windless afternoon, the air was heavy with the smell of cherry blossoms, few clouds were drifting lazily in the sky, starting to get a pinkish shade as the sun descended.

John quickly got out of the carriage when the coachman parked it before the entrance. He was wearing dark gray trousers, with legs tucked into high, black officer boots. Matching gray vest, with white shirt and black, double-breasted dandy jacket gave him a look of casual elegance.  
"Captain Watson, I presume?" The doorman appeared in front of him on a perron as John was walking up the few steps leading to the front door. "Everybody's waiting for you, sir."  
"Yes, sorry," John showed his invitation to the man, "I'm a bit late, unfortunately."  
"Right this way, sir," the doorman indicated him a way through the hall, "to the dining-room."

John walked through the long, wide hall where a soft, red carpet muffled his footsteps and the knocking of his cane. He could hear low voices and gentle music coming from the dining-room, lovely, placid melody played on the violin. He nodded at the butler who was standing by the dining-room door, and the man let John in, opening the door quietly so no one noticed John entering.

In the middle of the room there was a great, long table, surrounded by light-wooden chairs upholstered with purple silk. The table was covered with a snow-white cloth, and the tableware was porcelain, also white, with a pattern of little purple blossoms. Silver, shining cutlery matched several massive, silver candlesticks, and the whole composition was additionally decorated with pink, red and purple tulips, arranged in Chinese vases.

Everyone's eyes were fixed on the man who was playing the violin, John looked at him as well when walking in. He was tall and pale, with dark and curly, a little messy hair, wearing black tail-coat which only emphasized how thin he was. With his eyes shut, he was drawing the bow across the strings of the violin with his slender, gentle fingers. Everyone in the room was enchanted with his music, and so was John. It was breathtaking to look at this slim figure, lazily swinging to the rhythm, so focused and completely dedicated to the melody he was playing.

When he finished the crowd burst into applause, and the man bowed slightly, then opened his eyes and caught John's look. It only lasted few seconds because the butler, who was just waiting for the music to stop, announced loudly John's arrival.

"Captain John Watson," the butler shouted, and guests' eyes moved from the musician to John, still standing awkwardly by the door.  
"Oh, _Jean_! You came!" lady Sarah stood up from her chair and walked towards him with a wide smile. She was wearing a blue silk dress with laced roses and white frills. A diamond necklace and heavy diamond earrings were sparkling obtrusively in contrast to her soft, delicate skin. John bowed and kissed her hand.  
"Lady Sarah," he greeted her, "I apologize for being late," he said looking around the room as if addressing the whole gathering, "but on my way here my horse lost a shoe on a cobble."  
"It's all right Captain Watson. _Monsieur_ Holmes was entertaining us with his delightful music," lady Sarah's mother said politely.  
"So I heard," John looked again at the tall, dark-haired man, who was now sitting at the opposite end of the table, narrowing his eyes and scanning John's figure with a slight smirk.

"It's good to see you again, young man," monsieur LeBlanc, a dumpy man with big nose and big moustache, said loudly and cheerfully when John sat next to lady Sarah at the table. "Good that you could make it, we were just about to start dinner but Sarah insisted we should wait for you, she said you promised her personally that you'll be here today."

John looked at lady Sarah who was blushing, and he felt his throat clenching. Fortunately he didn't have to say anything because monsieur LeBlanc shouted at servants to start serving the dishes. Footmen dressed in black liveries with purple sashes began to bring in the meals. There were stuffed oysters with cranberry sauce, guinea-fowls stuffed with baked apples, crab cakes, bouillon, stewed lamb, eggs Florentine, roasted goose with plums, and then John lost count because monsieur LeBlanc talked to him again.

"Tell me, young man, how's your father? Is he in good health?" LeBlanc inquired, gesturing with a fork in his hand.  
"Yes… yes, thank you, he is well. I just received a letter from him last week," John tried to make his voice sound steady but he failed as lady Sarah was endearing herself to him, putting bits of every meal on his plate.  
"Then when you'll be replying please give him our regards."  
"I've already sent him a letter… yesterday to be precise. But I wrote him about my… acquaintance… with your daughter, so I believe there will be an opportunity to pass him your regards in the next letter," John barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes when lady Sarah giggled after he said that.

The rest of the dinner looked more or less in the same way: LeBlancs were throwing questions at him, about his father's businesses and investment plans, occasionally dropping something personal to pretend they're actually interested in him, not in his money, and lady Sarah was blushing, giggling and ostentatiously fluttering her eyelashes, leaning forward to him, whispering something in his ear and taking hold of his hand, while fingers of his other hand were clenching on his cane. They couldn't possibly be more obvious, John felt as if he was trapped in a farce.

John sighed with relief when the dinner was over and all the guests passed to the ballroom, the orchestra started to play waltz and a few couples began to dance. Colourful dresses were whirling around, music and laughs filled the air, flickering candle-lights made shadows dance on the walls. John and lady Sarah sat on a low sofa, looking at the dancing crowd, they were holding hands, or rather lady Sarah was holding John's hand, sighing out loud.

"So… who is this man who played violin today?" John asked, trying to drag Sarah's attention from the fact that he was obviously not going to dance with her.  
"Oh, it's this… artist," lady Sarah said, waving her hand dismissively.  
"A musician, yes, I assumed that much. But he's not with the orchestra, he's a guest, I thought it interesting that your father invited him," John smiled bitterly but tried to cover it with a tone of his voice.  
"He's a painter actually. Oh, and Englishman like you, by the way. Violin is just his hobby," lady Sarah was obviously bored with the subject.  
"Just a hobby? He plays excellent. Are his paintings as good as his music?"  
"I have no idea, I've never seen any. I don't really like him, to be honest."  
"Why not?"  
"He's just… he has this weird manner, he acts as if he's better than everyone else, and he's excessively straightforward, that's what papa says… but for me he's just rude and obscene. Although his name means a lot in the business world, according to what papa says, so we have to keep inviting him everywhere. Oh, there he goes, I can introduce you if you like, you'll see for yourself," she said indifferently, and John nodded, so they got up from the sofa and walked towards the man.

"_Monsieur_ Holmes," lady Sarah curtseyed with a fake smile and Holmes answered her with the same artificial grin, "this is Captain _Jean_ Watson, a friend of mine, and _Jean_," she turned to John, " this is _Monsieur_ Sherlock Holmes."  
"Nice to meet you," John smiled and reached out with his hand.  
"Likewise," Sherlock shook his hand and once again scanned him from head to toes, narrowing his eyes.  
"I'm sure you gentlemen will be having a lot of things to talk about, it's always nice to meet a compatriot in a foreign land," and the moment lady Sarah said that, someone joined them.

"Excuse me," said the stranger, a tall, handsome man with sandy hair "Lady Sarah, will you do me this honour and agree to dance with me?"  
"Oh… I'm sorry, but I'm here with Captain Watson." lady Sarah answered, clearly disappointed.  
"Please, don't care about me," John said quickly, "I can't dance, but there is no need for you to give up the amusement, my lady."  
"Are you sure, _Jean_?"  
"Of course, please, go dance. It'll be a great pleasure for me to see you having a good time."  
Lady Sarah didn't even try to hide her excitement as she and the stranger instantly walked away. John and Sherlock looked at each other.

"My name is John, actually," John smiled awkwardly, switching to English.  
"Ah, and you're also from London, judging by your accent," Sherlock's voice was deep and low, he sounded very self-confident, and it was a statement more than a question.  
"Yes, yes I am. So, if you're from London, too… do you mean to tell me that you're actually from _the_ Holmes family?"  
"Unfortunately," Sherlock smirked, and seeing John's confusion, explained, "my father wished completely different life for me. My older brother, Mycroft, fulfilled his wishes, he's focused on his career, he works with the government, just like our father used to. I became an artist… you can imagine they were not too happy about that."  
"I understand…" John was clearly upset.  
"Oh, I have no doubts you do."  
"Sorry, what?"  
"You yourself are trying to fulfill your father's expectations. It was obviously his idea to send you to Paris so you could find yourself a wife among French aristocracy, he hoped some noble family will be tempted by your money and good name, because obviously, with your wound from India, it's hard to find a woman willing to marry you," Sherlock said these words fast and without any hesitation.  
"How… how did you know all of that?" John asked, stunned.  
"I didn't know, I saw. First of all you were introduced to me as Captain Watson, so a military officer. You're limping, using a cane and your left arm is trembling from time to time, so it's obvious you were wounded. You're too young so clearly you weren't in an Afghan war, and also you're rubbing your shoulder, quite hard, so the wound is not fresh but it's not old enough to stop hurting, I would say four to six years. There was the Indian Rebellion six years ago, I assumed you must have been wounded there. Also I heard how monsieur LeBlanc asked about your father's businesses, he's clearly more interested in your money, so the rest of this story was quite easy to figure. But you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, your leg can still be working just fine so you don't have to look for a wife like this."  
"Oh my God, that was fantastic," John's eyes widened, "absolutely brilliant."  
"Really?" Sherlock asked, a bit surprised.  
"Of course, that was amazing, you were right about everything… but… what did you say about my leg?"  
"As I said, you're rubbing your shoulder and your hand is trembling, so that must be the spot that you were wounded. There is no way you have another wound in your leg because you don't ask for a chair when you're standing, just as if you have forgotten about it. So my assumption is that it is a trauma but physically you're fine."  
"Again, that is just amazing."

John couldn't stop grinning and it made Sherlock smile as well, but it was not this little smirk he had before, it was a warm and honest smile. "But what about you, you're not dancing?" added John after a longer pause.  
"No."  
"I don't think you'd have a trouble with finding a partner," John pointed in the direction of three young ladies who stood on the opposite side of the ballroom, looking at them, whispering to each other and laughing, "If you'd ask one of them I bet they'd be more than thrilled."  
"Hmm, not really my area," Sherlock looked at the ladies with this superior manner which lady Sarah meant when she described him to John.  
"Is that so?"  
"Yes. I consider myself married to my work."  
"Oh, yes, lady Sarah said you're a painter. I must say that's impressive, because when I heard you playing I was convinced you're a musician."  
"Music is just a hobby. Painting is what really matters to me."  
"Are you as good painter as you are violinist?"  
"Better, I think. But I believe you should judge it by yourself."  
"I'd love to see some of your works, where could I…" – but John didn't finish as lady Sarah appeared next to them and interrupted.

"_Jean_, I'm tired of dancing, can you join me in a dining-room for a glass of champagne?"  
"Umm… yes of course," John wasn't exactly happy that he can't finish his conversation with Sherlock, but he couldn't refuse to obey, "I'll see you around, mister Holmes."

Sherlock only nodded and after a moment he was left alone in the ballroom. Rolling his eyes as he noticed the giggling ladies again, he disappeared in the crowd to avoid them.

It took John couple of hours to relieve himself of lady Sarah's company. She was introducing him to all of her friends, John found them boring and shallow, and it was truly wearying to make small talk with them. When lady Sarah was asked for a dance again, John assured her that he doesn't mind, and the moment she walked away with another man, he left the dining-room and sank into the crowd.

He was hoping he could find Sherlock and finish their conversation, the man seemed very interesting to him and John didn't think of him as rude at all, his fascinating observation talent and peculiar way in which he was talking about his art were definitely appealing. However the ballroom was very crowded, and John didn't have any luck in finding Sherlock, soon he felt tired of the hot and stuffy atmosphere.

He quickly passed to the next room, from where a wide glass door was leading to the terrace. Only a few guests were sitting in that room, lounging on sofas and ottomans, drinking wine, talking lazily and enjoying the fresh air coming from the open glass door.

John went out to the terrace, the wave of cool, fresh air pleasantly hit his nostrils. It was already dark outside, stars were shining, and a pale moonlight rested on the trees and bushes in a garden, giving leaves and flowers a silver tint, crickets were chirping in a grass. The terrace was poorly illuminated, only the light coming through the glass door from the inside and a few candles, already half-burned, protected it from disappearing into the night. It took a longer moment before John realized he was not alone, there was another man, leaning against the balustrade, his figure barely visible in the dark.

When his eyes adjusted a bit John recognized it was Sherlock, so he joined him by the balustrade but said nothing. They were standing like this, in silence, for several minutes, and it was not uncomfortable at all. On the contrary, John felt that he's finally having a good time at this unfortunate party. It was quiet, calm and peaceful and, as a matter of fact, it should be utterly boring, but it felt just right.

"Beautiful, isn't it?," Sherlock asked breaking the silence as he was looking at the starry night.  
"It is," John looked up as well.  
"Did you escape lady Sarah's piteous advances?" Sherlock's voice changed, became more sharp.  
"I hope so," John answered and after a longer pause they both laughed. "We are just awful," John added, trying to stop giggling, "we shouldn't say that."  
"And yet, you're still laughing," Sherlock smiled the way he did before, warmly and honestly, and that smile made John feel a little bit too warm in his chest, so he quickly changed the subject.

"I was looking for you actually. Lady Sarah interrupted our conversation before, and you didn't tell me where I could see your paintings?"  
"I am afraid the answer is: nowhere, so far. I wasn't painting much lately because I am focused on one, bigger piece. However, I hope you will have an opportunity to see it in Louvre, on the upcoming Salon."  
"Really? That's amazing, I'd love to see your work, and Louvre! My God, that's truly admirable."  
"Please, feel invited to come and see it, I would like to hear your opinion."  
"I don't really know anything about art," John laughed again, "but I'm surely going to be there, it's a big deal to have one's painting hanging in Louvre, I'll be glad to congratulate you personally and see your piece."

Sherlock didn't say anything for that but his eyes were smiling and John couldn't stop looking into them. They seemed grey and cold in the dim candlelight, but John could swear that before, when he and Sherlock were talking inside, they were blue-green.

And again it felt right to just stand there in silence on this empty, dark terrace with millions of stars shining above their heads. John didn't know why his fingers were clenching on a cane again, because his shoulder didn't hurt in that moment, and Sherlock didn't know why he was getting goose bumps, because the evening was warm and there was no wind. But it all felt good, so oddly good and right, as if they were waiting their whole lives to meet at this terrace.

_"Jean_, here you are!" lady Sarah's voice that earlier sounded so melodic to John was now croaky and annoying, tearing apart the silence he shared with Sherlock, making the night instantly colder and stars faded, "I've been looking for you everywhere, the party will be soon ending and you haven't yet met my dear friend, countess de Montalia."  
"I will join you in a moment, my lady," John didn't have to mask the grimace that appeared on his face because he was still standing in the shadows, and lady Sarah couldn't see it. "Excuse me, mister Holmes. It seems I have to go, it was a pleasure meeting you and I enjoyed our conversation greatly."  
"Likewise," answered Sherlock politely but with reserve, although John managed to catch a twinkle in his eyes when they shook their hands.

They didn't speak for the rest of the evening. Sometime later, when John was leaving, only few guests were still in the residence, so he was sure Sherlock had already left.

John felt a huge relief when his carriage drove through the gate to the streets, and he left all those people with their fake smiles behind. Driving along the boulevard de Saint-Germain, he looked through the small window, up at the stars, and imagined being on the dark terrace again. Such thoughts seemed odd to him, but they also felt too good not to linger on them a bit.

He came back home and slowly went upstairs, thinking about what Sherlock said about his limp, he tried to walk without a cane for the last few steps but he didn't make it. He felt really tired, and started to get a bit of a headache, so he asked Jacques to help him undress right away, wanting to go to sleep.

While he and his butler were in the bedroom, the other man suddenly said: "Sir, I apologize, but I forgot. Someone left you a visit card this evening."  
"A visit card? Well, all right, please bring it when we'll be finished here," John didn't really pay much attention to that, and he momentarily forgot about this, so he was almost surprised when later Jacques came to his room with a visit card placed on a little silver tray.  
"Ah, yes, thank you, Jacques," John took the card. "You can go now, goodnight."  
"Goodnight, sir," said Jacques, disappearing behind the closed door.

John looked at the card and it turned out to be Sherlock's. Elegant, black letters said _Sherlock Holmes_ and when John opened it there was an address of his atelier and a sentence added below, in handwriting: _Please, call me Sherlock_.

* * *

i hope you like it so far :)

friendly reminder: i'm updating once a week, every Tuesday, and the whole thing will have 11 chapters.

see you next week then, i hope :)


	3. House in Montmartre

Part 1.

Sherlock didn't sleep that night. When all the candles burned out and cold, dim morning light started to sift through dusty attic windows, he was still at work.

He started when he came back the previous evening, and was still wearing black, elegant trousers he had on at LeBlancs' dinner party. His tail-coat was carelessly draped over the back of a chair in the corner of a room, he tossed it there when he burst into the atelier hours ago.

Sitting on a low, three legged stool, with sleeves of his white shirt rolled up above his elbows, he was mixing paint on the skin of his own forearm, because all the palettes were lying around on the floor, useless as they were all covered in already dried paint. His skin was more pale than usual, veins clearly visible underneath, shadows under his reddish eyes, dry and bruised lips were bitten to blood in the moments of greatest focus.

"Perfect," he mumbled to himself when the shade of yellow-brown paint on his arm finally satisfied him. Putting a little bit of it on the tip of his brush, Sherlock carefully put paint on the canvas, on an easel in front of him, the movement delicate.

He shouldn't really be working on anything new, not until his big masterpiece for the Salon was still unfinished. However, when he came back from LeBlancs' that night, the Muse took control, and his fingers were literally itching to take hold of a brush and paint. And he did.

When the painter looked down at his arm again the shade of paint was different, brighter. He frowned at it, but after a second his tired brain realized that it's because now sunlight filled the room completely, announcing a new day.

Taking a last, quick look at this new painting, he stood up and wiped the paint off his skin with an old, dirty cloth he found on the floor. Then he walked out of the room and then ran downstairs.

Sherlock's atelier was a room in the attic of the house he was renting, a medium-sized tenement house at Rue de Poteau in Montmartre, the district of artists. The atelier seemed nothing special at the first sight: there were simple brick walls with one big window and two smaller ones, their glasses always smeared with dirt. The wooden floor was plain, the boards almost seemed naked. In the corner there stood a brass bed covered with an old cotton blanket in tartan pattern, one three legged stool, and an old crooked chair.

But the place had a very specific atmosphere, a charm of its own. One of the walls was entirely covered with pinned sheets of brownish paper, Sherlock's drawings and sketches made in pencil and carbon. His clothes were hanging on hooks behind the door, simple but neat: some white wide-sleeved shirts, two black jackets with patched elbows, and few pairs of trousers. Sherlock, save the tail-coat he had won playing cards in Café de la Nouvelle Athènes *, had literally two velvet suits that were good quality. They were the most pricy of his possessions, the last things he bought for his father's money, before leaving London forever. Candles and oil lamps cluttered the room. There were piles of canvas, sketchbooks and unfinished paintings, jars filled with dirty, cloudy water with paintbrushes sticking from them, palettes covered with fresh and dried paint, and more paintbrushes strewn all over the floor, the bed, on a windowsill. One was even stuck behind Sherlock's ear.

There were three rooms in the attic – the atelier, Sherlock's bedroom, and a small toilet – but Sherlock rarely left the first one. He never used the bedroom, having moved the bed to the atelier, because he usually worked until he was too tired to hold a brush, then took a short and shallow nap. The first thing after waking up was to take a brush into his hand.

The landlady, Mrs Hudson, long time ago gave up trying to keep the attic clean and neat. At first she tried to clean it for Sherlock once a week, then she tried to ignore the mess, only to sigh heavily in Sherlock's presence. But finally the landlady even gave up going up there, leaving Sherlock alone with his "messy artsy genius," which is how she used to call it.

But the atelier wasn't big enough for the great painting Sherlock was preparing for the Salon, so Mrs. Hudson let him work on it in her drawing room on the ground floor. That's where Sherlock was heading after leaving his atelier that very morning. Running downstairs he bumped into the landlady. He managed to catch her before she tripped, affectionately squeezing her arms and nearly shouting, as the energy literally boiled inside him.

"Good morning Mrs. Hudson, a lovely day, isn't it?"

"Good heavens!" she said even louder than him, "Look at you, boy! Did you sleep at all?"

"No! No time for sleep, sleep is, in fact, a waste of time!"

"Oh dear, you'll be ill if you keep going like this."

"It really doesn't matter right now, Mrs. Hudson. What matters is the work! Art!"

"Does it mean I'll be allowed to use my drawing room again anytime soon?"

"Yes, soon my painting will leave your drawing room because in a few weeks you'll be on your way to the Louvre to see it!" smiling he jumped from the last few steps and quickly walked to the drawing room, leaving Mrs. Hudson stunned on the staircase.

"Will you at least let me make you something to eat?" she shouted after him.

"Digestion slows me down!" she heard the answer from the already closed door.

In the middle of the drawing room there was a huge canvas on an easel: Sherlock's great painting, his masterpiece. He approached it, slowly, as if he suddenly became intimidated by it. Morning light filled the quiet room and made the place look like the inside of a church or a chapel, as all furniture had been moved under the walls to make room for canvas.

The painting depicted Judith slaying Holofernes, a Biblical story about the brave Judith who lived in the city of Bethulia which Holofernes attacked with his army. To save her people, Judith gained Holofernes' trust and one night, when she was visiting him in his tent, she got him drunk with wine and cut his head off in his sleep. She did it with his own sword.

Sherlock visited Italy once, Rome to be precise, and saw the famous painting by Carravaggio, depicting the same scene **. He thought Carravaggio's painting simply ridiculous. Blood spurting unnaturally, resembled tense red strings tied to Holofernes' neck. Judith was young and fragile, her delicate, milky skinned hands were holding this huge, muscular man, and his heavy long sword effortlessly, her dress coquettishly sliding down her shoulders, and her beautiful face, with a slight grimace, looking as if she was dealing with a nasty little kitten that scratched her rather than with a warrior.

Sherlock's piece was different. On his painting, Holofernes' naked body with muscles tense and veins visible under the dirty and sweaty skin was writhing on the bed whilst Judith was slitting his throat with a blade, her fingers tangled in his greasy dark hair. His swollen, chapped lips wry in a silent scream, glassy, drunken eyes beholding at Judith with horror, a single tear hanging from his lashes. Their feet were dirty from sand and soil, and so were their nails. Judith was grimacing, showing brownish, rotten teeth, wrinkles forming around her eyes, sweat running down her nose, matted hair clung to her sweaty neck.

Sherlock had nailed drawings of dead, naked bodies all over the walls of the room: sketches of actual murder victims he made when visiting crime scenes. Looking at them, sometimes for hours, he tried to make Holofernes' body on his painting to look exactly how it would look in the moment of death, the most absorbing matter to him was to show the contrast with the juicy, lively, full body of Judith.

He didn't know how long he worked that day, the painting being almost finished. He spent hours with a petite, thin brush in his hand, painting details and putting shadows on Holofernes' tensed skin, on every single muscle visible under it. Sun was high in the sky, his lips were dry and hair messed even more than usually, hands numbed, fingers stiff. Then he heard a knocking at the door.

"Mrs Hudson!" He shouted, frowning and blinking furiously, angry at being disturbed, as his red, tired eyes started to burn. He heard some noises by the front door and a few moments later Mrs Hudson came to the room, bringing fresh air inside.

"Master Courbet came to visit you, Sherlock," he heard her voice, distant and muted, as if from another world. He looked one last time on the painting, examined the effects of his work with narrowed eyes, and shook his head as if to wake up, then he turned around to see Gustave and Mrs Hudson in the doorway.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, my friend," Gustave said loudly, "but you promised to show me your newest drawings, and I happened to be in the neighbourhood."

Sherlock sent Mrs Hudson away with a polite nod and a less polite wave of his hand. He walked across the room and stood close to Gustave.

"Forget the drawings," Sherlock's hoarse voice answered him, "I finished my masterpiece! Come, my friend, have a look." His hand wrapped around Gustave's shoulder and he pulled his friend further into the room.

Gustave's eyes widened when he saw the painting, Sherlock felt the tremble in his arm as the man shuddered and quietly gasped. When Gustave looked back at Sherlock, his eyes were tearing, his mouth open.

"It's… oh my God," Gustave looked at the painting again, and then quickly back to Sherlock, his eyes running madly over the younger man's face, "it's absolutely perfect… it's amazing!" And then, suddenly, Gustave hugged Sherlock, almost crushing him in his strong arms, "My friend… you're a genius."

Sherlock awkwardly hugged him back, patting his shoulder, and then pulled away to look at his friend, Gustave's eyes were still glassy.

"Your appreciation means the world to me," the young painter said with a faint smile.

Gustave's face suddenly changed, darkened. He blinked and tears fell to run down his cheeks, his jaw clenched. "My appreciation is all that you'll get," Courbet said through clenched teeth. "Sherlock, you can't, listen to me, you can't show this to the jury of the Salon. This is truly a masterpiece, you're simply brilliant, I've never seen someone so… so gifted. But it's not a painting for the Salon, they'll turn you down, but more importantly… they'll kill your spirit." Sherlock frowned at the words and slowly stepped back from Gustave, who added a moment later, "The Jury is cruel for artists not from the Academy. There is no place for you there, and definitely not with that painting. I knew it earlier and having seen your work… I'm even more certain."

"I never thought I would hear such words from you," Sherlock glimpsed at Gustave with narrowed eyes and raised his chin, looking at his friend in a superior way. "You… _you_ don't believe in me?"

"I believe in you more than I believe in myself. I admire your extraordinary talent. But I'm also older than you, more experienced and I've been through this once. I'm just reasonable, Sherlock, my vision is clear whilst yours is blurred by the fire and passion of your youth. The Academy will never accept you. The Official Salon will never accept you. Please, save yourself from this-" Gustave's voice broke at the end.

"With all due respect, my friend, but it's been years since they turned _you_ down. It's different now, you will see. They will see. How could they not take me, when I created the greatest painting of our times? I told you before… they will be thrilled, amazed… I will be a sensation." Gustave saw sparkles in Sherlock's eyes again, and he knew that there is no point in talking to him right now, because it was fire that spoke through his lips.

"I wish it for you… I pray every night, you have no idea…" Gustave slowly walked to the door, his voice lower.

Sherlock hesitated, wanted to stop his friend from leaving, but before he did or said anything Gustave was already in the hallway.

"I'll see you again after the jury visit you. I hope…" but Gustave didn't finish, eyeing the younger painter with a painful look of is tired eyes that oddly made Sherlock shiver. Then Courbet turned around and left.

Sherlock stood there for a few minutes, thinking of Gustave's words. They should have made him angry, but instead he felt… afraid. He looked once more at his painting, and though it didn't change after those few minutes, it seemed to him as if he saw it for the first time. Shaking his head he quickly left the room, escaping the illogical fear.

Part 2.

Even though Sherlock couldn't think about anything else for the next few weeks and he was preparing himself for that moment, the day came almost unexpectedly. _Judith Beheading Holofernes _had been finished for days, every detail perfect. The painting was still in Mrs Hudson's drawing room, covered with a white sheet to protect it from dust.

That day Sherlock was sitting in his atelier from the very morning, busy working on his newest piece. He seemed nervous and wanted to keep himself occupied because days passed and there was no sign of the jury. Soon, painting a new piece started to relax him and he gladly spent most days on it.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and then Mrs Hudson burst into the room without knocking, slamming the door abruptly. Sherlock looked at her, puzzled, and after a longer pause she managed to speak.

"They're coming, Sherlock," she simply said, her voice trembling. "I was just coming back from the market and I heard some fuss in the crowd, seeing the lords riding in a carriage through Rue Championnet. I'm sure it's them, there was the royal emblem on the carriage door."

Sherlock rose to his feet without a word. He crossed the room to look through the window and Mrs Hudson stood next to him and they waited, looking at the street, their eyes fixed on the nearest corner where Rue de Poteau intersected with Rue di Ruisseau. Minute, two minutes, five, ten… and then the carriage emerged from around the corner. Mrs Hudson heard Sherlock inhale deeply, then, still without a word, he turned away from the window and left the room, running downstairs. The landlady followed him and, when the knocking at the front door reverberated in the hallway, she opened it to greet the five lords from the Royal Academy.

The lords wore velvet frock-coats, plum, dark blue and crimson red in colour, snow white shirts with lacy collars and cuffs, their trousers tight, tailor made, black leather shoes with shiny silver buckles, and powdered white wigs on their heads. They entered the hallway, looking around curiously, some of them a bit disgusted, nodded politely to Mrs Hudson. She showed them the way to the drawing room, where Sherlock was already waiting, his hand clasped behind his back, tensed. When they stepped in, he noticed they wore bored expressions on their faces as they gathered in the centre of the room, in front of the painting still covered in sheets.

"_Monsieur_… Holmes," spoke one of the lords, the one in crimson red frock-coat, looking at a card he took out of his pocket to remind himself of a painter's name. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm lord Emmanuele Sausine, head of the Royal Academy's Salon jury," Sherlock bowed slightly and so did lord Sausine, "and here are my colleagues: lord Valineaire, lord de Mantequist, lord Allisenne and lord de la Nique," all of them nodded as Sausine introduced them. "As you know, we're here because you applied for this year's Salon, and as the jury, we would like to see the painting you've prepared for our judgement. If you could be so kind…" Sausine pointed to the covered painting, and Sherlock involuntarily held his breath when he took away the sheets, exposing the canvas.

He could swear he heard them gasp when they saw the painting, but couldn't know for sure, because it was as if the whole world around him disappeared for a moment. He wasn't even looking at them, he imagined this moment so many times, expected the look of admiration on their faces but now, when the moment came, he couldn't bear looking at them. He stared at his painting instead, seeing it for the first time since Gustave's visit, and he smirked as all doubts that Gustave's words planted into his heart disappeared. The painting was perfect, it was the masterpiece of his life, he knew that now. But when he drew his gaze to the lords, he saw their faces wry in something between disgust, disbelief, horror, and indignation.

The prolonged silence thickened the air and Sherlock heard his own heartbeat. Until the last second he thought, was almost convinced, that the shock on the lords' faces was a compliment. But then one of them spoke.

"This is… outrageous! Is this some kind of a joke?!" It was lord de Mantequist who raised his voice, his face turning red.

"_Monsieur _Holmes, you… this is not in good taste to… do such things," Lord Valineaire, a short man with a tiny head looked almost like a blushing maiden and couldn't find any better words to express his embarrassment.

Other lords whispered vigorously between each other, sending Sherlock nervous, feverish glances. Sherlock's words stuck in his throat as he stood there, next to his painting, in front of the lords from Royal Academy, and felt there is no air to breathe in.

Sausine, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock's painting, stepped aside and gestured for the lords to gather around him. He told them something, and it seemed as if they were arguing, but they were whispering and Sherlock couldn't hear what was being said. It didn't take them more than 5 minutes, their whispers became louder, their gestures more violent, and then Sausine stepped front of Sherlock again.

"_Monsieur_ Holmes," he began, "regrettably, I have to announce that the jury cannot accept your painting to be presented at this year's Salon."

"May I ask why?" Sherlock managed to speak again, trying to sound calm and collected but his shaking voice betrayed him.

"Because this… _this _is the worst filth I have ever seen!" lord de la Nique lost his temper and shouted, pointing to the painting, drops of saliva resting on his pink lips. "It's… it's awful, everything is dirty and filthy, it's garbage… I can almost smell its stink!"

"This is exactly how the scene would look like! Do you think that Assyrian warrior and a simple wench were bathing every day and wearing silk and brocade?" Sherlock stepped forward to face de la Nique, Sausine gently but firmly put his hand on Sherlock's chest to push him away.

"No! I don't think they were," de la Nique answered, "and this is exactly why I'd like to see something like that in a painting. This, _this_!" He gestured at the painting again. "This I can see every day in the street, all I have to do is to visit the gutter, the docks, or a public house!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he turned his head slightly, as if de la Nique's words slapped him in the face.

"Lord de la Nique uses very… straightforward words," Sausine spoke, "But I think he expressed the feelings of the whole jury. _Monsieur_ Holmes, this is unacceptable to show something like this in Louvre. This is the _Royal _Collection, there is no place for… the dirt from the streets. Your painting, your art is… my apologies _monsieuri_, but I don't see you belong among us."

Sherlock didn't even have time to react when all the lords went on to leave the room. Only Sausine gave him one last look, expressed his "apologies" but his eyes revealed that he was not sorry at all. None of the rest even shook his hand when they were leaving and did leave the house quickly, still visibly outraged.

_It's not a painting for the Salon, they'll turn you down, but more importantly… they'll kill your spirit, _Gustave's words echoed in Sherlock's head as he stood in the hallway, looking at the door that just closed behind the lords.

With the corner of his eye he saw Mrs Hudson in the kitchen doorway, her hand covering her mouth. _She heard everything_. He didn't look at her, he didn't look at his painting, he just turned around and slowly went upstairs. Mrs Hudson heard the attic door close shut as Sherlock disappeared in his atelier without a word.

Heavy and thick silence filled all the rooms again.

* * *

* Café de la Nouvelle Athènes in Place Pigalle in Paris was a meeting place for painters.

** Caravaggio, Judith Beheading Holofernes, 1598-1599.

ok, well, i do hope you weren't bored to death by this chapter.  
i know that descriptions for both Sherlock's atelier and his painting were long and very detailed, but i hope you can forgive me that. you know, painter!Sherlock is a character very dear to me, he was shaped in my head in a very specific way and i wanted you to see him as i do.  
besides that, Sherlock's atelier will be, from now on, an important place for future events, so i wanted you to have this mental image :)

anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter at least a little bit!

love you, x.


	4. Painting in the Attic

Gustave came to him every day since he heard about the Jury. Mrs Hudson, wringing her hands, begged him to help her persuade Sherlock to eat something at least, but all they achieved was talking to him through the closed door of his atelier. If the few "noes" and "go aways" count as talking. Sherlock didn't leave his atelier, no one saw him for three days except Gustave who kept knocking, shouting, threatening, begging, but achieved nothing.

"Please Sherlock… my dear boy," Gustave whispered affectionately to the closed door, "you have to go out, sitting here will do you no good." Gustave's pleadings never provoked an answer.

Sherlock spent the following days lying sleepless and restless on his bed, his hands clasped under his chin, staring at the ceiling or into the light coming through the window, but mostly looking at the little painting, the one he was working on all night when he returned from LeBlancs'. He took it to bed with him, and squeezing the corners of the canvas with his shaking, stiff fingers, he stared at it musingly, fixing his eyes fixed on the painted figure.

On the fourth day, when Gustave came to him once again, Sherlock shouted an angry "Go away" the second he heard at the knock on the door. However, Gustave didn't give up easily.

"Sherlock, listen to me…" Gustave began, and hearing no answer he sighed and went on. "There is someone here with me… someone who wants to see you. Can you let us in?"

Sherlock suspiciously looked at the door, Gustave's voice indeed seemed different today, giving away a hint of excitement… _why_?

"Who?" Sherlock answered him, his voice hoarse and so quiet he wasn't even sure if the other man heard him.

"_Monsieur _Holmes," spoke the unfamiliar voice behind the door, "my name is Claude Monet. We met before in Moulin de la Galette."

Sherlock stood up from the bed and put away the portrait he was holding, floor cracking under his feet as he slowly approached the door. The suspicious look on his face was replaced by curiosity and he licked his dried lips, gazing at the door as if he wanted to pierce the impenetrable wood with his gaze.

_Interesting_ – he thought – _Gustave came here with Claude Monet… what for? And Monet of all people… why him?_

Sherlock knew that Courbet never liked Monet: the dreamer, the painter of impressions and volatile moments, the lunatic with his head in the clouds, as he used to speak about him. And yet he brought him to Sherlock's atelier that day, and Sherlock couldn't figure out why. _Something important, something new_ – he reached out and rested his hand on the door knob, too intrigued to resist.

Gustave came in first, as Sherlock's close friend he was often a guest to his atelier, so naturally he felt quite at home there. Looking at the younger man's pale face, hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes he frowned and walked across the room to the window, opening it wide. Only then Sherlock realized that the smell in the atelier must have been awful, after he sat there for three days straight. Monet came in after him, taking off his hat and nodding, looked around awkwardly until Sherlock pointed at a crooked chair to sit on.

Monet was wearing dark green jacket with brown patches on the elbows and he looked much like Gustave: bushy beard and eyebrows, kind face and wise eyes.

Gustave leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms, but his look was gentle and the relief was clearly visible in his eyes. Sherlock sat heavily on a three-legged stool and, raising his eyebrows, gave them both a questioning look.

"Well?" he spoke finally when the three of them were settled in the atelier.

"_Monsieur_," Monet began, "I've heard that the Royal Academy's jury visited you this week." Sherlock nearly winced at these words, but said nothing, Monet continued then, "they paid me and many of my colleagues a visit as well, not more than two weeks ago."

"Yes, of course, that's obvious. They're the jury, we're the applicants, and the Salon will be taking place very soon. To the point." Sherlock was noticeably irritated by the subject of this conversation.

"My point is, they have rejected us all. I spoke to many, many of my friends, and their friends as well, and they have rejected an enormous amount of paintings." – Monet said squeezing his hat in his hands.

Sherlock frowned and gave Gustave an angry look. _Is that supposed to console me? My failure should be less embarrassing for me because it happened to many others as well? I don't need pity_ – his thoughts clearly visible on his face.

"It became obvious to us that jury keeps rejecting almost everyone who's not a member of the Academy," Monet dragged Sherlock's attention back, "we decided to… protest."

"We?"

"The initiative came from Edouard Manet. He and another painter, Whistler, convinced us to write a letter to the emperor. I really didn't think we could achieve anything but then… Napoleon gave us an official permission to make our own exhibition."

"The thing will be sponsored by the French government," Gustave joined the conversation, "and it'll take place 15 days after the official Salon."

"And you, _monsieur_, are invited to show your painting there," Monet concluded with a careful smile.

"So, all the rejected painters will show their works there, instead of the official Salon?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes. _Salon des Refusés_ it will be called," Monet replied.

Sherlock stood up so abruptly that the three-legged stool tipped over onto the floor.

"_Salon des _what?!" he shouted at the elder man. "Who do you think I am?! I am _not_ a reject! Was this your idea Gustave?" He turned to face his friend. "Did you think I'd show my painting at something called _Salon des Refusés_? I thought you knew me better."

"But Sherlock, this is a great opportunity to…" Gustave mumbled apologetically, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but the young man pushed it away.

"Opportunity to what? To label myself as a drop out from the Academy?!"

"_Monsieur,_ it's…" Monet stood up and tried to explain himself, but Sherlock didn't let him finish.

"I don't want to hear any of this!" He waved his hand furiously in the direction of the door. After a moment of uncomfortable silence Monet bowed, ever so politely, and left. Gustave tried reasoning with Sherlock but the man shushed him with his hand and said, emphasizing every word: "My masterpiece will not join a club of rejects. Good day, Gustave."

When Sherlock was left alone in his atelier he closed his eyes shut and, facing the wall, kept hitting the bricks with his fist, trying to muffle the burning sensation in his chest and underneath his eyelids.

It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes when he heard noises downstairs, and then footsteps in the hallway. He fisted his palm again and left the atelier, shouting while running down the stairs.

"I thought I explicitly told you to leave, Gusta-" but then he froze, seeing that the man at door wasn't Gustave.

"Hello," the man said in English, his smile shy but warm, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"John." Sherlock stated the obvious as his mouth fell open.

"You left me a card." John reminded him, whilst Mrs Hudson offered to take his jacket and cane, but he politely shook his head.

"Yes, yes, of course." Sherlock regained his composure and invited him upstairs, helping him on first steps as John noticeably grimaced when he had to rest his weight on his left leg.

When they entered the atelier, John looked around with an amazed expression on his face.

"So, this is where you work?" John's eyes were bright and smiling.

Sherlock suddenly felt intimidated, remembering the sight of John's big, luxurious house that he briefly visited to leave his visit card there. But it only lasted a moment, as John added: "It's amazing".

Sherlock invited him to sit down, but John thanked him with a nod, as he was curiously walking around, looking at the paintings and sketches that were cluttering the room.

"Sorry it took me so long to visit you," John said again, "but I assumed you would be very busy as the Salon is soon."

"I was busy, that's true."

"So, did the jury see your painting already?" John asked casually. "How did it go?"

"Umm… yes. Good, it went… good," Sherlock lied quickly, but his voice broke a little as he saw John smiling.

"Great, congratulations then. That's fantastic," John looked at him warmly, and then added, "could I maybe see this masterpiece?"

"Not really, I'm sorry," Sherlock didn't really know what to say, how to explain himself.

"Ah, I understand. You don't want to reveal your great painting before the official exhibition It was worth a try, though."

"Let me show you something else I've been working on lately, I think you will like it." Sherlock quickly changed the subject, and reached for the portrait that kept him busy since the night after LeBlancs' dinner party.

John's eyes widened when he saw it, as it turned out to be his portrait. The resemblance was striking, on the portrait John was wearing a military uniform, his hand resting on a gun holster. His expression was serious and, one could say, even a bit sad, but also cold and distant. Frowning a little, he looked at something distant, something outside the canvas.

"It's as if… as if I'm looking into a mirror," John said, stunned, looking up at Sherlock who smirked, full of content.

"The portrait is yours, if you want to keep it," Sherlock said.

"Thank you. What an extraordinary gift, I'd love to have it," John looked back at the painting, "but if it stays with you, there is a chance that one day my face will be in Louvre, next to your other painting," he added with a soft laugh.

"Then you should definitely keep it," Sherlock looked away, but when John didn't answer, he explained dryly, "my painting will not be shown in Louvre. They rejected it."

"Oh…" John said quietly, "I'm… so very sorry."

"There is no need," Sherlock looked back at him with a fake smile, "but thank you."

"Will you… try again then?" John asked, didn't really knowing what to say.

"I don't know. I was invited to attend another exhibition, but I couldn't accept it."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a gathering of all other painters who were rejected from official Salon this year. They called it _Salon des Refusés_, can you imagine? Exhibition of the Rejects," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"So?"

"So, they want me to admit, that I am not good enough for the Royal Academy, and show my masterpiece at some second-chance, drop outs exhibition."

"I don't see it like that. Only because the Academy's jury didn't appreciate you, you shouldn't deprive people of your art. Will you let your painting, into which you put so much work, remain hidden from anyone but you? It doesn't deserve to be unseen."

"You haven't even seen it, how could you possibly tell?"

"Because I'm seeing _this_," John took his portrait from Sherlock's hands, "and this is just my silly face. How much better must be your other work, I can't even begin to imagine."

"Do you really think so?" Sherlock looked him in the eyes, softly and somehow shyly.

"Of course," John smiled at him and handed the portrait back to Sherlock, "So now, tell me more about this art of yours."

...

The evening found them sitting on the floor in the atelier, the portrait leaning against the chair in front of them. John's hand, holding a paintbrush, was covered with Sherlock's, and the painter was slowly leading both of their palms, carefully spreading the paint on the canvas.

"See?" Sherlock's voice so quiet, it was almost a whisper, "You can do it yourself. Finishing your own image, I guess this is a self-portrait now."

John chuckled, letting Sherlock's slender fingers tighten around his own, gripping the brush more firmly, and at the same time the movement of their palms became more gentle, the brush leaving only tiny spots of paint.

"That is amazing." John couldn't stop smiling. Sherlock looked away from the painting and stared at him, marveling how John's face brightened up.

"So, this is how you see me?" John asked suddenly, and looked back at Sherlock, they eyes met.

"What… what do you mean? This is how you look." Sherlock answered, puzzled.

"Well yes, but… _you _painted me, so you must've expressed your opinion about me in this image somehow," seeing that Sherlock still doesn't get it, John continued, "I think every artist puts a little bit of himself in his works. Especially when it comes to portraits, I don't believe there is such thing as an objective portrait. The painter shows how the person looks like, but also there is no way to avoid adding something… personal. How he feels about the model, what sort of a person the model is, you know… deep inside."

"But can you see it, John? Can you actually see it… I mean this… feelings, emotions one has towards another person?" Sherlock asked simply.

"No, you can't, but…"

"So it's irrelevant."

"But the day we met…" John said, confused, "you knew things about me, you said you saw them, like my military service, and my wound, and my marriage… plans. These are not things other people see, and yet you noticed."

"They see it, they just do not observe," Sherlock's voice a bit annoyed, "I explained it to you, how I figured out all those things. And all of it is, in fact, shown in your portrait."

Sherlock pointed to the painting in front of them, "Military service, not just the uniform but also your skin, tanned lightly from the Indian sun, and the way you look: your eyes have seen a lot of deaths, but you almost got used to it, so much death, it made you desensitized," Sherlock moved his finger from the painted eyes to the lips, and lower to point at the arm, "your right arm is resting on a gun holster but the left one is clenched, by your side, and you're trying to hide it behind your back, this is because of your wound. It's all here, those things are as visible as anything, people just have to learn how to look."

"You're such a pragmatic," John looked back at Sherlock.

"I will show you something," Sherlock stood up from the floor and crossed the room. From the wall that was all covered in raw sketches he picked one and came back to sit next to John, "Here," he handed him a sketch. It was a sheet of brown paper with a drawing made with charcoal and pencil, the lines very expressive, almost angry, as it was made in great hurry. The drawing depicted a male corpse, lying on its stomach, the neck twisted, the back ripped awfully by a dog. John could see every little detail, even though the drawing was clearly only a very raw sketch.

"You understand now?" Sherlock asked, "how I feel about his death… what sort of a man he used to be, if I knew him or not… that really doesn't matter."

John put the sketch away on and looked him in the eyes.

"But I thought that is the point," he said eventually, still gazing at Sherlock, "that artists, the gifted ones, the inspired ones, are able to show the most intimate emotions, hidden deep down, those about which we're too ashamed to speak aloud. You know, to look inside someone and drag his soul up to the daylight."

Sherlock was looking at John, partly amused, but he didn't manage to say anything to that as John suddenly added: "Like your music."

"My music?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Yes, you know that melody you were playing at LeBlancs'. I felt all those things when you were playing. Whoever composed that, must've felt something very strong couldn't find another way to express it but through music. That's the gift artists have."

"I composed it."

"Really? Then… what did you feel when you were playing it for a very first time?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, and that was the truth, "nothing special, I suppose."

"I won't believe that," John smirked while Sherlock stood up and took his violin from the other corner of a room.

He walked to the window and look at the roofs of Paris, dark and cold, as they were too high for streetlamps to reach them with their golden light, only cold starlight was sliding across them. _Somewhere out there _– he thought looking at the city – _is Louvre, the only thing I've ever dreamt of. What is left for me now?_ Placing the violin under his chin, he slid the bow across the strings of his instrument, and melody drifted through the opened window, the very same melody he played the other night at LeBlancs'. John stood up slowly and came to stand next to him, he didn't look at Sherlock, just gazed upon the stars and listened. It was the saddest and yet the most beautiful melody he had ever heard, peaceful, as if it was about the lingering memory of sadness already reconciled. When Sherlock finished, it felt as if the city just held its breath for a second and silence fell.

"I was late that day," John murmured under his breath, still gazing through the window.

"Hm?" Sherlock muttered.

"I was late for dinner and I entered the room while you were already playing. If I had arrived even five minutes later I wouldn't have heard you play. Your wonderful music would be missing from my life, even though I wouldn't know about it, something would be missing anyway. Don't do that with your painting, don't let it be unnoticed just because someone didn't appreciate it, you have another chance now."

They looked at each other, they eyes met, and none of them said anything else. Again they were standing under the stars, silent, and again it didn't feel odd at all. But this time they were standing much closer, the space between them smaller than a single step. John could smell Sherlock's scent and he smelled like resin, paint, and candle wax, like wood and old paper, like smoke from the chimney and lamp oil, and underneath it all, like _Sherlock_. John caught himself closing his eyes for a second too long and inhaling the scent. Sherlock's lips parted as he looked down at John's chest, rising and falling with long, deep breaths.

"And I don't believe that you felt nothing when you wrote that music," John breathed, his voice so low it didn't even disturb the comfortable silence between them.

"I really don't know," Sherlock gasped softly, and again it was the truth.

"I must go, it's late," John had to force himself to speak these words, they barely came through his lips, as he really wanted to stay.

"All right," Sherlock nodded, but it didn't feel all right at all.

They parted awkwardly, leaving their spot by the window. John straightened his waistcoat and jacket whilst Sherlock put away his violin.

"No need to see me off to the door. I'll find my way, I took enough of your time anyway," John smiled at him, and after a moment of hesitation, he reached out with his hand.

"Please, your visit was a pleasure," Sherlock's surprisingly soft hand held John's.

"Thank you. I hope I will see you again soon."

"You're always welcome here."

"As you are in my place."

John prolonged the hold of their hands but eventually he slipped his palm away and slowly left the room, however, without looking back. Sherlock heard his footsteps on the stairs, and then turned around to look out of the window. He saw John get into a carriage. He could swear John looked up at him but then the carriage drove away, and he couldn't tell for sure. Looking away, he glanced at his empty atelier, and his gaze fell on a John's portrait. He approached it slowly, his eyes fixed on the figure's painted eyes, and he smiled involuntarily.

The next day, right before noon, a messenger came to Claude Monet's atelier and brought him Sherlock's card. When Monet opened it there was ashort handwritten message:

_I will gladly accept your invitation_

_to exhibit my painting at Salon des Refusés._

_ ~ SH_

* * *

* Claude Monet, painter, founder of impressionist movement.  
** Moulin de la Galette, a windmill in Montmartre, sort of a restaurant-meeting place thing.  
*** Edouard Manet, painter; James Whistler, painter  
**** Salon des Refuses, Exhibition of Rejects (it actually took place for the first time in 1863, it was exactly how i explained it in this story, so it's a historical fact, except that it wasn't called Salon des Refuses back then, the name was given to it much later, that detail i changed in this story)

okaaay, guys, i hope you liked it.  
see you next week and remember to dress up all fancy cause next week we're going to the exhibition, Sherlock's big day finally!

love you, x.


	5. Reject at the Salon

Salon des Refusés took place 15 days after the official exhibition.

It was in the month of May: fresh and warm scent of morning rain filled the air, street puddles were slowly drying out in the sunlight. Everything was ready for the big opening of the Salon, the venue was the Palais de l'Industrie *. Sherlock's painting had been transported there and hanged among the works of almost 400 other painters rejected from the official Salon that year.

The Palais was about to open for visitors at 3 o'clock. Some of the painters lingered there since the very morning, silently admiring their colleagues' paintings, but mostly wandering around in solitude, checking what are other artists' reactions. Everyone was nervous, but they masked it with loud talk and casual jokes, furtively looking at their pocket-watches, counting hours and then minutes until 3pm striked. Edouard Manet and James Whistler were the most confident ones, as they seemed not stressed at all, whereas the modest Camille Pissarro was constantly rubbing his sweaty hands, and Henri Fantin Latour, who always seemed very sad, looked even more pale and gloomy than usual **.

John promised to be there an hour before the opening. He came perfectly on time and wanted to comfort Sherlock, although he was himself quite nervous. Since John's first visit in Sherlock's atelier they have seen each other two or three times a week, but had no time to just sit around and talk or paint together. Sherlock had a lot to take care of before exhibition, and John accompanied him wherever he could be of any help. He saw Sherlock lose his temper quite often lately, and even though the painter didn't want to admit it, John knew he was simply worried.

Courbet met him at the entrance and led him in. The vestibule in the Palais was nicely cool and being able to escape from the harsh sunlight John felt refreshed when he came in. The day continued getting hotter by the hour despite the morning rain, and even though John was wearing a light cotton suit, he felt very uncomfortable. However, as he came in further, it turned out that the main hall of the Palais de l'Industrie was situated under a glass roof, and the interior was unpleasantly warm and stuffy.

This is why John was surprised to see Sherlock dressed head to toe in black, a well tailored suit emphasizing his thin and slender figure. He stood in front of the painting that depicted a sunrise in an harbour, a lazily drifting boat, and waters mirroring the colours of the morning sky. John stood next to him and read the signature on the painting. Sherlock noticed him with the corner of his eye but remained still and silent, his hands clasped under his chin, eyes narrowed, examining the painting in front of him ***.

"Oh, it's Monet," John said and looked up at the piece.  
"I don't really know what this is," Sherlock answered him in a conspiratorial whisper and after a longer pause John giggled, covering his mouth with his hand.  
"Told you, you're such a pragmatic," he managed to say eventually, still failing to muffle his laugh.  
"That's not relevant," Sherlock sounded almost offended, "I won't believe that you can actually see something defined and concrete in this ridiculous mess."  
"Well, of course I can! It's a sunrise, sea, boats…" John enumerated, pointing at the painting.  
Sherlock raised his eyebrow and examined the canvas once again, but then shook his head and stepped away.  
"This man drinks way too much absinthe," was the final verdict as he moved on to another work. John followed him, still giggling.

When all the hour hands of pocket-watches pointed at 3 o'clock, John, Sherlock, and all the other artists gathered in the vestibule. The tense atmosphere of anticipation was almost tangible. A heavy, two-winged door were opened and the Palais de l'Industrie was ready to welcome the visitors. John could swear he heard Sherlock breathing out an impatient: "finally".

People started to spill into the Palais, as the exhibition was quite an extraordinary event. John didn't recognise any of the visitors but Sherlock every now and then pointed at someone in the crowd and whispered their names and professions. Journalists, critics, writers, even Academy members, but John couldn't remember all of the names Sherlock told him.

Visitors were gasping and covering their mouths when they saw Manet's _Luncheon on the Grass_ **** with two scandalously naked women and two fully dressed men on a picnic in a park. Manet himself seemed very proud about the fuss his painting made, winking meaningfully to his good friend Gustave Doré *****.

John really wanted to go and see Sherlock's work, which was hung further in the main hall, but Sherlock kept wandering impatiently around the center. Eventually they gradually moved to the right direction, passing along Whistler's magnificent _Symphony in White_ ****** with a strange looking girl all dressed in white. John saw Sherlock tense as they heard one of the critics praise Whistler's painting. Finally, John spotted Courbet in the crowd, as he stood in front of Sherlock's piece.

_Judith Beheading Holofernes_ looked impressive in this huge interior, colours even more vibrant, the details exposed wonderfully. John has seen death, corpses, and blood on numerous occasions when he was in India, so he thought not much will startle him. However he almost choked at the sight, because for him it looked as if Sherlock's painting was dripping with actual blood. He looked at Sherlock, pride obvious in his face, eyes sparkling, lips parted in an attempt to hide a smile. Then John looked at Courbet and turned pale, seeing the horror in older man's eyes. It was too late to stop, too late to say anything as John and Sherlock approached the painting and what terrified Courbet. It was one of the journalists talking to someone from the Academy and two critics joined them after a while.

"Sausine told me about this but I thought perhaps he was making fun of me! But it's true, he really painted something like that!" said the man from the Academy.  
"This is going to be a scandal anyway, imagine what would have happened if you had had it exhibited in Louvre!" the journalists exclaimed, taking out a piece of paper and starting to take notes.  
"Good heavens!" one of the critics literally covered his mouth with a lacy handkerchief, "what is this… atrocity!?"  
"The word _refusé_ seems to be getting an entirely new meaning," the other critic agreed with him, smirking.

John looked around and saw the viewers to be as terrified and outraged as the four men whose conversation they just overheard. Some of them were laughing mockingly, some were frowning and shaking their heads, or stood with their mouths open in shock. He turned to look at Sherlock, but he regretted it immediately, as the painter's face turned almost grey and the sparkles in his eyes were turned blank, his jaw clenched.

John didn't know what he saw in Sherlock's face in that moment. Was it hurt, anger or even rage, pique, or was it just a broken heart? It didn't really matter, because it only lasted for a split-second, and then Sherlock turned around and walked away, heading to the main entrance. John followed him, limping as he tried to make his way through the crowd. They both went outside, the street was much quieter than the crowd buzzing inside.

"Sherlock, wait!" John shouted but didn't really expect the other man to obey. Surprisingly, Sherlock stopped, not turning around though, "don't take it so personally…" John caught up with him and put his hand on his shoulder.  
"Are you out of your mind?!" Sherlock turned to face him, shaking off his hand, "didn't you hear them? They despise me! They despise my work!"  
"But…"  
"You talked me into this! I don't know why I agreed. Apparently I am not good enough even for this rejects' exhibition!" Sherlock's eyes went teary as he spoke, "but how can you understand that?"

Sherlock quickly walked away, John vainly tried to follow. The painter knew the city well enough to lose him, and soon he disappeared on a side-street, abandoning John in the crowd. He didn't know what to do, overwhelmed by an outburst of remorse for getting Sherlock into this, for encouraging him to do make the (possibly) biggest mistake of his life. He hesitated for a moment, thinking that maybe he should leave Sherlock alone for now, but then he felt he couldn't bear it. He went back to the main road and caught a carriage which took him to Rue de Poteau, to Sherlock's atelier.

Mrs Hudson let him in, a worried look appeared on her face as she saw that John returned alone. She instantly knew that something went wrong. John briefly told her what happened as they sat over a cup of tea. While waiting for Sherlock to come back John couldn't stop thinking, suspecting that it was indeed his fault, that he shouldn't have encouraged Sherlock to attend the exhibition if he didn't want it in the first place. He fisted his palm every few minutes, annoying wave of numbness spread in wounded shoulder. He couldn't wait for Sherlock to be back, he wanted to tell him that he was being foolish and he's sorry, he wanted to see if Sherlock is still so angry with him.

An hour passed and then another, and Sherlock didn't show up. The passive waiting started to drive John crazy.

"Don't you know any places he might have gone to? I mean… when he wants to be alone, what does he do?" he finally asked Mrs Hudson.  
"Well, he's usually alone _monsieur_ Watson," she said sadly after a moment.  
John sighed and hid his face in his hands, sinking into an armchair.  
"But… I think _monsieur_ Courbet will know," she added, the strangeness in the tone of her voice sent a shiver down John's spine. "Please, go find him, he'll help."

He didn't know what she meant by that, but her trembling voice and the sadness in her eyes were enough for him to get up and leave as fast as he could with his limp. He caught a carriage and drove back to the Palais de l'Industrie. He found Gustave sitting on a bench nearby, smoking a pipe, and staring at the fountains of Champs-Élysées.

"How is he?" Gustave asked without even looking at John, biting at his pipe.  
"I… I don't know. I've lost him."  
"Lost him?" Gustave looked up at him.  
"He didn't come back to his atelier… I spoke to Mrs Hudson, she said I should ask you, that you'll know where he might be."  
Gustave rose his eyebrows, and John saw the same worried look that he has seen in Mrs Hudson's face.  
"Come," the older man said as he got up from the bench and walked away without further explanation, waving for John to follow.

It was already getting dark when they arrived at Avenue Bosquet. John wondered what they were doing there, as it was a posh neighbourhood favoured by nobility, however, that particular street looked oddly out of place. Gustave led him into the yard of one of the houses, where it smelled of urine, sweat, and spoiled meat, and also of something else that John couldn't recognise. They approached a single lamp hanging above the back door and the smell intensified. Gustave knocked several times, pausing after each few knocks, as if it was some kind of a code. John crossed his arms on his chest, suddenly feeling chilly in the cool evening air.

Someone opened the door, but John could barely see the man in the dark interior. The stranger looked at him suspiciously but nodded at Gustave and let them in. They went down the stairs, into the basement, and entered a large room. Wooden beds were aligned at the walls and sheets were also spread on a floor. People were lying around as if they were asleep, but their eyes were only half-closed. John noticed the ceramic pipes in their hands, and oil lamps beside them on the floor.

"It's an opium den," John whispered to Gustave, stunned.  
"Yes," the man admitted. "we'd better start looking for him, the smell here is horrible."

They started to carefully walk around the place, maneuvering around the intoxicated and unconscious people who didn't seem to mind at all. John had to gather all strength not to shake, as he was still in shock that they ended up in such a place. Suddenly he saw Sherlock lying on the floor, propped on one elbow, his head swinging lazily back and forth. He inhaled the smoke from the pipe and his eyes fluttered shut, paying no attention to the visitors.

"Gustave!" John called him and gestured to where Sherlock was lying.  
Gustave made his way over the unconscious pile of people and helped John grab Sherlock's arms. They pulled him up and helped him to stand still. He didn't protest, his body feeble, he couldn't resist being dragged out of the den, even if he wanted to.  
"None of the carriages would take us ," Gustave breathed heavily when they were finally outside, "we have to carry him on foot."

And so they did, walking along the streets of Paris as the evening changed into night and stars slowly appeared on the navy blue sky. Having Sherlock's arm draped over his shoulders, John supported him by wrapping his own arm around the painter's waist, and Gustave did the same from the other side. It wasn't easy to lead the man like this, especially for John who was struggling with a cane.

Sherlock was barely able to walk and at first he could hardly drag one foot after the other, but slowly the fresh air helped him to sober up a bit, and he started to take unsure steps, though his head still kept swinging loosely. Finally they found themselves in front of Mrs Hudson's house, letting Sherlock to sit on one of the steps, Gustave and John wiped the sweat from their foreheads.

"You will manage on your own now, won't you?" Gustave asked after he caught his breath.  
"What? You're leaving me with him?" John looked down at Sherlock who curled up into a ball on the stairs, sitting up only because he leaned his head against the wall.  
"I brought him home in that state many times before… too many times. I'm afraid Mrs Hudson may want to kill me."  
"Well, that is just great." John rolled his eyes.  
"Please, take care of him _Jean_," Gustave sounded serious again, "I've been his friend for years, and yet he only shouted at me when I told him about _Salon des Refusés_. You managed to convince him. I don't know why he listens to you, but that is a great achievement with Sherlock."  
"Maybe he shouldn't have listened to me, you see what happened because of this stupid exhibition."  
"Maybe he shouldn't, but he did. And that doesn't happen very often. Not at all, if you want me to be honest," Gustave patted John's back and walked away, leaving them in front of the house.

When John saw Mrs Hudson's face, he understood why Gustave wanted to go. But after a few seconds, anger was replaced with concern, and she helped him to lead Sherlock upstairs. When they managed to put him into his bed, she brought him a bowl filled with tepid water, and a towel. John thanked her and asked her to go to bed herself, offering to take care of Sherlock.

When they were left alone in the atelier John put the wet towel on Sherlock's forehead, checking his pulse. He looked so fragile when he was lying in his bed like this.

"John…" Sherlock let out a barely audible sigh.  
"Go to sleep, Sherlock," John said as he brushed the dirt from his cheeks with a towel.  
"John, I…" he breathed again.  
"All right. If you're in a chatty mood," John sat next to him on the bed, "tell me why you did it. You're a mess!"  
"I… I'm a failure," Sherlock looked up at John from under heavy eyelids.  
"Is everything really just black and white for you? It's not the end of the world, you know."  
"But I… Art was… all I had. I am… I am finished as an artist. What is… what is left for me now?" Sherlock grabbed John's forearm, his fingers squeezing tight.  
"Sherlock, listen. Treat it like an opportunity to try something new. Something different. A challenge, you know."  
"But I…"  
"Remember our talk, when I first came here? When we talked about your music? I told you that you're treating art as if it was science."  
"Wha… What else is art if not science?"

John untangled Sherlock's fingers from where they were squeezing the sleeve of his shirt and got up from bed. He took his portrait from the easel and kneeled next to the bed, so he was able to face Sherlock.

"Look," John showed him the portrait, placing the other hand on his chin and forcing him to turn his head and look, "this is how I look like. But that is obvious enough. You painted it brilliantly, you really did, but any stranger on the street can look at me and see this. You have got to know me. You've seen me suffer at this terrible dinner party when lady Sarah was unbelievably annoying, and you sneaked out onto the terrace with me. You talked to me about my wound and my limp. You've been teaching me how to paint, you played violin for me only… now you know things about me that others can't see. Paint it. Don't simply show people how I look, that doesn't matter. Introduce me to them, show them… who I really am to you."

Sherlock's eyes fell open, he leaned slightly to his side and reached out with his hand. Brushing his fingers over the painted face, he scanned the portrait with a feverish look, his hand surprisingly steady.

"I don't think I could do this, John," he sighed eventually.  
"You can. You're an artist. You have this amazing gift of observation, but you also have this fire inside you. Just think about it, Sherlock. Look at me. What do you feel when you look at me?"  
"I don't know," Sherlock answered, but it was a lie.  
"Of course you don't. I'd be surprised if you'd know your own name in this state," John stood up and put the portrait back in its place, "you should go to sleep."

He helped Sherlock sit up on the bed and took off his jacket. Sherlock's tired eyes closed again and he groaned when John was pulling his arms out of the sleeves. When the painter lied down again John took off his boots.

"Do you need me to stay?" John asked.  
"Don't… don't bother with me. I'll be fine and Mrs Hudson is here if I'm not." Sherlock awkwardly pulled up the blanket to cover himself.  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes…"  
"All right. I'll be going then. Do you… do you want me to check on you in a… day or two?"  
"If you want to," Sherlock mumbled sleepily.  
"Sherlock… I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. You were right, it's my fault. I shouldn't have talked you into this," John was already at the door when he said that.  
"It's fine, John. Don't… don't apologise."

John blew out the candles before he left and the atelier sank into the darkness of the night, only the dim starlight came through the window. Sherlock opened his eyes and scanned the empty room, focusing on silver shadows creeping on the brick walls. His gaze found John's portrait in the opposite corner. And then he frowned, as he could swear that the painted figure stared back at him. He blinked, but the painted face was still looking right at him, and then it smiled, at first lightly, then grinned wickedly. Sherlock closed his eyes shut and rubbed them with the back of his hand. He turned around to face the wall, not looking at the painting anymore. His opium-drugged mind slowly drifted away and he fell asleep.

* * *

* Palais de l'Industrie, exhibition hall in Paris.  
** all the mentioned artists were painters  
*** "Impression, soleil levant" by Claude Monet, painted in 1872 BUT the original and very first version of this painting was in fact painted in early 1863 and shown at the very first Salon des Refuses.  
**** Edouard Manet, "Luncheon on the Grass", 1863  
***** Gustave Dore, French artist, engraver, illustrator and sculptor  
****** James Whistler, "Symphony in White no 1 (The White Girl)", 1862

dearest readers,  
first of all… I'm sorry. I really feel I should apologize for what happened. Most of you probably hoped that Sherlock will be finally appreciated at this exhibition and that it'll be his big day. Well…

You know, realism wasn't really appreciated at all in its own times, and besides many many artists got very bad reception at Salon des Refuses, as well as horribly bad reviews. It was mostly because the audience was very random (the exhibition was open so often people were coming right from the street). But also you need to remember that French people were used to academic art, which was very monumental and aesthetically proper, and those new things that rejected artists presented were just impossible to understand for them, too progressive, you know it was nearly avant garde.

BUT fear not my beloved readers! As John said, it is an opportunity for Sherlock to try something new. Stay with me and see how he'll manage that. Next week, in chapter 6, I have something very special for you ;) you won't regret it.


	6. Love in the Atelier

John spent the whole morning in his study. He was trying to read, sitting in his favourite old armchair, a fine piece of furniture upholstered with dark green velvet. He couldn't focus on the book though, looking up from it every now and then, staring through the window. The day seemed lovely, sky was clear and blue, gentle wind ruffled the leaves in the trees, sunlight lazily flickered through the heavy curtains of John's room. But despite that the inside of his study was cold and unwelcoming and he sank deeper in his armchair, trying to to make himself a bit more comfortable.

The room was spacious and cozy, with an original Turkish carpet on the floor, soft armchairs with carved armrests, bookshelves covering the entire wall, two Murano glass chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. And yet John felt that he'd rather be in Sherlock's small atelier in the attic. His room seemed too big for him and he felt out of place. All the things surrounding him: carpets, chairs, books, vases, coffee tables, lamps - all of it resembled props in theater. It seemed fake.

It's been two days since he last saw Sherlock, since he and Gustave have dragged him out of the opium den. John wanted to check on him on the next day, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, as he was still feeling guilty for what happened. He wasn't sure if Sherlock even wanted to see him. He probably didn't, it was all John's fault after all. It was John who talked him into taking part in the exhibition, and it turned out to be a complete disaster.

John closed the book and put it away, standing up heavily from the chair. He decided to go out on a walk to clear his mind. He was just about to call for his butler when he heard raised voices coming from downstairs, followed by quick footsteps. He recognized the voice of Jacques the butler; he was arguing with someone as the voices seemed to come behind the door.

"You can't just go in there!" Jacques shouted, and in that second the door of John's study burst open.  
"John!" Sherlock stormed into the room, paying no attention to Jacques' protests, "good, you're here!"  
"Sherlock, what-"  
"_Monsieur_ Watson, forgive me. The man just didn't listen when I told him he should wait," Jacques was talking fast in French, trying to explain.  
"And your butler didn't seem to understand that this is too important to wait!" Sherlock crossed the room, approaching John with a wide smile and squeezed his shoulders, "you have to see something!"  
"It's fine, Jacques. Thank you," John answered, seeing the butler's puzzlement and sent him away with a nod, "Sherlock, what-"  
"Come with me, quickly!" Sherlock interrupted him, pulling his arm and dragging him out of the room, "you have to see it!"  
"But-"  
"Come!"

They left the room and ran downstairs, Sherlock rushing John constantly. Running outside they nearly tripped, but Sherlock didn't slow the pace.

"Are you going to tell me what it is?!" John asked, panting, as they crossed the street, Sherlock still pulling at the sleeve of his shirt.  
"You'll see, John!" the painter waved for a carriage but it didn't stop, as there was already a passenger inside. He waited until the carriage passed them and he caught the handrail in the back, stepping on the rear wheel axle. Having his arm pulled by Sherlock, John followed, too shocked to protest, and they drove away, on the back of the carriage.

John's cane was left in his study, leaning against his armchair, but John didn't even notice.

They let go of the carriage few streets away from Sherlock's atelier. Walking along John could see the pure excitement on the painter's face. He looked way better than last time John had seen him. His skin, though pale as usual, had sort of a healthy blush, his eyes clear and definitely sober, his step springy as he walked beside John. He was dressed neatly, although John noticed a few paint stains on his shirt.

"I can see you're feeling better," John said with a shy smile.  
"What? Oh, yes… yes, I'm fine," Sherlock seemed too thrilled to pay full attention to the conversation.

Finally they entered Mrs Hudson's house and Sherlock indicated him the way upstairs, pushing him impatiently. Taking two steps at a time they rushed up the stairs and walked into Sherlock's atelier.

And then John saw it, the thing that Sherlock wanted to show him: the painting on the easel in the middle of the room. John's mouth fell open as they both stood in front of it.

"The paint is still wet, that's why I couldn't bring it to you. I needed you to come here and see it at once," Sherlock explained, breathing out with a relief.

John stepped closer, unable to take his eyes off the painting. It was his portrait, but completely repainted. The distant, sad, and cold look that the painted figure had before was gone, his face was now proud and bright. The newly painted John was wearing a warm smile and wrinkles formed around his mouth and eyes, and oh, those eyes… deep and kind but also a bit cheeky, his gaze piercing the viewer.

"Sherlock…" John finally managed, as he sat on the floor in front of the portrait, examining it more closely, "this is… it's beautiful. But it's me."  
"You may not be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable," Sherlock kneeled on the floor next to him, still smiling as he spoke.  
"Excuse me? Was that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?" the other man chuckled.  
"I know that last time we saw each other I seemed… I _was_, well intoxicated…but I... remember everything you said," the painter explained, "you were right, I should try to do something new. And look. I did it. This is how I see you."  
"Amazing…" John marveled, his eyes still fixed at his new portrait, "how…?"

"Well, this is the smile I saw on your face when I was leading your hand with a paintbrush… it brightened up your face in such a wonderful way. And those little wrinkles here, I saw them when you were looking at my painting at the exhibition. You thought I didn't notice, but I did, a mix of admiration, curiosity, and shock. It made you look… rather interesting. That blush just on the tip of your nose you had after I played violin for you the other evening. And your eyes…" Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and it made John look away from the painting and their eyes met, "… these are the eyes I saw when we were standing on the terrace at LeBlancs'. Dark, deep, millions of stars mirrored in them… and that was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," Sherlock swallowed and laughed nervously, softly, "I thought about what you said. Any stranger on the street can see how you look like, but none of them could see you in all those situations, only me. Now this is truly _your_ portrait."

John didn't think for a second about what he was doing as he leaned forward, resting his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulling him closer. He kissed him, and the kiss was brief and nervous, only a soft brush of their lips that lasted for a single heartbeat. When they parted, John leaned back and his eyes flickered down to Sherlock's lips.

"I… I'm sorry. That was… I shouldn't-" John tried to explain himself, but he didn't finish because Sherlock took his face in both of his hands and kissed him back, hungrily and deep.

John's lips parted letting in Sherlock's tongue, as his hand grabbed the back of the painter's head, his fingers tangling into the mass of dark hair. The kiss deepened even more, John felt the taste of tobacco when Sherlock's tongue brushed over his. Sherlock gasped as John softly bit on Sherlock's lower lip and gently stroked his cheeks. The kiss long and needy and sweet.

And then they finally understood, because again, as every silence they shared before, it didn't feel awkward or odd, it just felt right. Sitting on the wooden floor in the little atelier, with their fingers clinging desperately into eachother's skin, they kissed as if it was the last thing they were going to do in this world.

Then Sherlock broke the kiss, just for a moment, just for long enough to rest his forehead against John's and whisper softly, his breath ghosting over John's lips:  
"This is what I feel when I look at you."  
"Oh…" whatever John wanted to say was cut off by another kiss, the words were lost between searching tongues and swallowed as their lips met again.

Floods of thoughts rushed through John's head. Both his heart and mind melted into a warm puddle that spread from his chest through his whole body. Sherlock's presence, since the very beginning, made him feel butterflies in his belly, but what he felt now was way more than this.

Earlier, when John thought about Sherlock, about what his presence, his voice, his touch, his look, was doing to him, he gave various names to this feeling. Curiosity, fondness, attraction, fascination. But neither of them could actually express what he felt. At the thought, John let out a soft whimper, right into Sherlock's mouth. It was unimaginable that Sherlock cared so much about him, but he must have, mustn't he? John noticed things about Sherlock as well, his sharp looks, amused smirks, the way he narrows his eyes, the way his dark locks curl around his ears… he admired his handsome features as well as his mind and skills. But the way Sherlock described John just now, the way he painted him… that was utterly intimate. He, John Watson, a short man with a scar on his shoulder and a limp, with bags under his eyes and wrinkles around his lips, had become the painter's muse. And more than that, he became so important to him that he could actually pinpoint each of his smiles and frowns. Butterflies in John's stomach went absolutely crazy at the thought.

Shifting on his knees John leaned forward, his hand still on the back of Sherlock's head, pulling him closer into the kiss, while his other palm rested on painter's chest. Sherlock leaned back, forced by the weight of John's body, and his back hit the wooden frame of the bed. He shifted slightly, getting up from the floor, trying not to break the kiss as John's lips teased his, soft whimper escaping him. He sat on the bed, John still kneeling on the floor, now between his legs. Sherlock's hands moved from John's face, down his to neck, to his shoulders, and he pulled his arms. He felt the corner of John's mouth lifting up in a smile as he climbed onto the bed with him, still kissing, deeply and firmly. Sherlock could swear that he felt the taste of John's smile in that kiss.

Spreading his legs to let John settle on the mattress between his thighs, Sherlock laid back on the bed. John's hands immediately found their way under painter's shirt, he caressed his soft, warm skin, fingers tracing his ribs. Sherlock tilted his head and kissed John's jaw, teasing with his teeth. John hissed and closed his eyes, his hands escaped from other man's skin and started to impatiently unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

Exposing the man's bare, porcelain white chest, John leaned down to place a kiss on the base of his neck, Sherlock's arms wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him close as he marked his neck, collarbone and chest with hot, greedy kisses. Then Sherlock's hands moved down to slip under John's clothes, but the light touch of his fingers against John's skin was not enough. He quickly pushed John away, braking the trail of kisses the man was leaving across his chest, and started to pull on the sleeves of his jacket, desperately trying to undress him.

In response, John fisted his palms on the fabric of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him up, both of them sat up on a bed and slid each other's shirts off their arms, John's silk shirt buttons were violently ripped off.

When both of their shirts were finally tossed onto the floor, and they sat on the bed facing each other, naked from the waist up, their legs tangled together, they suddenly froze, breathing shakily and exchanging feverish looks. Sherlock was the first to break the gaze, his eyes flickered down onto John's left shoulder, where an old wound was still clearly visible. Scared skin was stretched and shiny as if it was waxed, its tone darker, a bit livid. Sherlock slowly reached out with his hand and touched the wrinkled flesh with his long, delicate fingers. John shivered a little, but not from pain. Sherlock's thumb caressed the scar, then he leaned and placed there long and tender kiss. His thighs tightened around John's hips. Without looking up at John, Sherlock whispered, his breath hot against the skin of John's shoulder: "Wear it proudly, it's a medal for your bravery."

John breathed out Sherlock's name as he cupped his cheek and lifted his head, pulling him for another kiss, crushing his lips against his own. He felt the painter's fingers running down his torso, wandering between their bodies, and then tickling the skin around his navel. John groaned out loud as Sherlock's hand brushed against the bulge that formed in front of his trousers. Sherlock smirked against John's lips and cupped his erection through the fabric. A desperate moan escaped from John's throat, his hands fell down onto the mattress, grabbing a handful of sheets as his hips jerked up.

Sherlock wriggled on the bed, untangling their legs and awkwardly changed his position, but without breaking neither the touch of their lips nor his grab on John's hardening cock. Eventually, now kneeling on the mattress before him, Sherlock began unbuttoning his trousers, still teasing John's lips with his tongue. John eagerly kissed him back and shifted his hips as Sherlock pulled his trousers down.

John's trousers and boots soon joined his abandoned shirt on a floor, Sherlock broke the kiss to move his lips down his throat as his hands caressed John's bare back. John's head fell back, exposing his throat to the painter's greedy kisses and gentle bites. Sherlock's palms moved smoothly to his hips, his fingers tickling as they slipped under the fabric of his underpants. He leaned down, his tongue teasing John's nipple on its way, parted lips brushing over the skin on his stomach, and then he pressed his mouth to his crotch. John felt his hot breath against the damp spot on his pants, his cock twitched at the sensation. Sherlock palmed him through the fabric again and John felt so dizzy that he had to close his eyes.

For a moment there was nothing else in the world but Sherlock's delicate touch, breath, and heartbeat. Then his hips shifted almost involuntarily as he felt his underpants being pulled down, and a second later Sherlock's slender fingers wrapped around his hard cock.

John whimpered desperately and couldn't bring himself to open his eyes and look down, because he thought he could come just from the sight itself. The touch alone was nearly too much for him, as Sherlock's thumb teased the head of his cock, spreading the drop of precum, his hand slowly moving down his shaft and then up again, slowly, so very slowly.

John's breath became faster, he couldn't control his hips jerking up at Sherlock's touch, the painter's name escaped his lips between more and more desperate moans. And then when he thought that this pleasure will soon bring him to the edge, Sherlock took him into his mouth, wrapping his lovely lips around his arousal. John cried out his name, trying very hard not to come instantly, and not to violently thrust deeper into the wet hotness of Sherlock's sweet mouth. Sherlock hummed contentedly around his cock, feeling how much John was enjoying his actions.

John needed to look at him so he fisted the sheets and opened his eyes, looking down. The sight was delicious, Sherlock's cheeks hollowed as he sucked him down his throat, dark curls resting on his pale forehead, his fingers digging into the skin of John's thighs. John felt his tongue dancing along his shaft, as he bobbed his head between John's legs.

One of John's hands went to rest on Sherlock's head, he gently brushed his fingers through other man's hair, pushing ever so lightly to make him take him deeper. Sherlock looked up at him from under long, dark eyelashes, his tongue sliding flat along the length of John's shaft. He took him all the way down, until he felt the head of John's cock hitting the back of his throat. Burying his nose in pubes, inhaling the sharp scent of John's body, his hand moved to cup the man's balls.

Soon the pleasure started to overwhelm John, his hips began to tremble, his moans turned into helpless, begging cries. Sherlock understood that John was close, so he sucked once more and withdrew, John's cock left his mouth with an obscene pop, drops of saliva dripping on his chin as his tongue flickered once more around the head of John's cock.

"Why did you stop?" John breathed, pulling Sherlock up for a kiss. He tasted himself through painter's lips, it made his cock twitch again where it rested heavily between his legs.  
"I want to feel you…" Sherlock murmured against his mouth "…inside me."  
"Sherlock…" John groaned and bit the other man's lower lip, kissing him intensely. His hands slid down his back and then grabbed his buttocks. Sherlock breathed heavily and shifted a little, letting John's hands wander along his backside, his thighs, his hips.  
"Please, John…" Sherlock spoke again, his words a little more than a mere breath, "make me yours."

John sighed, his voice low, and pushed Sherlock onto the bed. Forcing his knee between Sherlock's legs, he crawled on top of him. One of his hands started to work with buttons of Sherlock's trousers, while the other pinned the painter to the mattress. Sherlock wriggled his hips when John impatiently pushed his trousers down together with his underpants, freeing his erection.

Sherlock's bare legs wrapped around John's body, his hands exploring man's back, squeezing his buttocks, nails digging and scratching the skin as John kissed and bit his neck. Their erections, trapped between their bodies, were sliding against the already sweaty skin. John felt how Sherlock eagerly pushed his hips up, his cock pressing harder to his stomach. John pushed his hand between their bodies and took hold of both of them together, stroking them to the rhythm of his speeding breath. Sherlock nearly squealed at the sensation, his fingers leaving bruises on John's back.

Sherlock looked John in the eyes, flickering with lust, and exhaled loudly. For a moment they were just gazing at each other, lying still, their bodies tense.

"Do you… have something... you know... ?" John asked, his voice shaky.  
"Oh…" Sherlock breathed, his eyes darting to the side, "over there, on the shelf," he shook his head to indicate the direction, "there is a bottle of walnut oil, I'm using it to mix pigments."  
Sherlock looked back at John, sensing from his hesitation that there was something more he wanted to say.  
"Are you sure?" John's voice steadier now.  
"Yes," Sherlock's short answer came instantly.

John placed a quick, tender kiss on Sherlock's lips, and then reluctantly got out of the bed to fetch the oil.

_Yes_, Sherlock thought as he watched John walk naked around his atelier, but he didn't have time to marvel at this, as John came back, lying on top of him once again.

Sherlock felt the heat spreading through his belly as the weight of John's body pressed him to the mattress. Their lips met again in yet another gentle kiss, Sherlock wanted it to last forever, his tongue lazily wandering inside John's mouth. But then John lips escaped him, moving to his jaw line, and then neck. Sherlock closed his eyes, his fingers squeezed on John's arms. He was muttering John's name as the man kissed his way down his chest and stomach. He felt firm hand wrapping around his cock, few quick strokes, and John's breath against sensitive skin.

John dug his fingers into the small jar of walnut oil, the substance dripping to the sheets when his slickened finger slid between Sherlock's buttcheeks. Sherlock spread his legs, pulling up his knees, to give John better access. John's index finger circled his entrance, his other hand rhythmically stroking Sherlock's heavy, leaking cock. He heard painter's speeding breath, little moanins he was making gave John shivers, his own cock twitched, hanging heavily between his thighs.

When John felt the round muscle loosen a bit under his finger, he pushed in, Sherlock's body tightened around him immediately. John moved his finger gently in and out for a few times, only the tip, slowly working Sherlock's arse open. The painter's body relaxed, his hips wriggled pushing back on John's finger. John took the hint and slid his finger further, taking Sherlock's cock into his mouth at the same time.

"Oh God…!" Sherlock cried out as John sucked the head of his prick, his finger working inside him.

Every time John's finger were sliding deeper inside Sherlock's arse, he took his cock deeper into his mouth. Soon he was fingering him knuckles deep, his tongue swirling around Sherlock's shaft. He added another finger and Sherlock's tight hole stretched under his touch, muscles relaxing, the plushy inside of painter's body was insanely hot around his fingers. John felt the salty taste of precome as Sherlock's cock started leaking inside his mouth.

"Please…" a weak and trembling voice begged, "John…".

John took Sherlock's prick out of his mouth, exhaling deeply. Soon, Sherlock felt John's fingers escaping his body and he whimpered when they scissored inside him one more time before being pulled out.

John kneeled on the mattress, positioning himself between Sherlock's legs. The painter shifted his hips, spreading his legs wider. John dug his fingers into the oil jar once again, and spread the lubricant on his own cock. Stroking it to slicken himself he looked down at Sherlock, lying open before him, the sight elicited a low groan from his throat.

Taking hold of Sherlock's hips, he shifted him a bit more and the painter's trembling legs wrapped around his body. John stroked his own cock a few more times and then brushed it against Sherlock's hole, pushing the tip inside.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sucked in the air, it wasn't a hiss but it made John stop for a moment. Sherlock's body felt hot and tight, muscles squeezing around the tip of his cock. He could be a little more prepared, they both felt it, but then Sherlock's body relaxed a bit, he opened his eyes and gave John a reassuring look.

When John pushed further inside him, Sherlock felt a burn of pain as John's cock stretched him, filled him inch by inch. A weak whimper turned into a teary moan. But then there was something else under the pain, something bittersweet, spreading through his body in a wave of heat.

"Don't stop…" Sherlock moaned and tightened his fingers on John's arm.

John hesitated, but encouraged by Sherlock's moans he kept pushing in. Finally, with one last, quick slid he buried himself fully inside him. Sherlock tried to relax, breathing heavily.

"All right?" John asked, panting as well.  
"Yes…" Sherlock's voice was husky, "I just… I didn't think I'd feel that way. It hurts, but the pain is sweet and… somehow overwhelming."  
"Is… is this your… first time?" John's eyes widened, his hands caressed Sherlock's stomach and sides.  
Sherlock nodded, and it made John sigh involuntarily, "Oh".

John leaned forward, Sherlock's arms came to hold him close, John lied down, pressing their bodies together. The painter's hips jerked up eagerly, so John started to move. It was careful and a bit awkward at first as John was trying not to hurt Sherlock. He slowly slid his cock out and then pushed in again, and again, and again.

Sherlock's quick breath was hot against his cheek and little purring noises assured John that Sherlock's body adjusted enough. John sped up his pace, his hips started to slam against Sherlock's arse more firmly, every thrust was came deeper. Soon he was thrusting inside him balls deep, Sherlock's hole still tight around him, but the wet hotness so welcoming and his erratic movements were accompanied by painter's desperate panting.

Drops of sweat appeared on John's neck and back, Sherlock's arms sliding along his body. Air in the little atelier was filled with sharp scent of wet bodies, drops of oil on their pubic hair mixed with sweat, and the room smelled of sex. Their breathy groans drowned in the sound of skin slamming against skin. John's cock was thrusting mercilessly inside Sherlock and one of his hands went down to grab his buttcheek, spreading it wider. Sherlock's prick was pressing hard against his stomach, precome mixed with sweat dripping from John's belly as Sherlock's hips jerked up to the friction.

Sherlock felt John's teeth on his neck, and his fast heartbeat, bouncing against his own chest. He felt his fingertips digging into the skin of his arse, a firm hand spreading him wide, a hot and pulsing cock filling him, and the world around him disappeared: the universe narrowed to John's body moving against his own. His cock was twitching painfully, resting on his stomach and the pressure of John's body made him whimper. The sensation was strong enough to keep him unbearably aroused without bringing him to the edge.

"John…" Sherlock was sighing between jerky breaths, pushing back to meet his thrusts.

John teased him, taking his whole length out of painter's body and then pushing in only the tip. A few more similarly shallow thrusts and they both turned into a mewling mess. Sherlock's tight hole tensed around him and the sweet hotness squeezed around the head of his cock, as he was sliding in and out.

When John pushed all the way in again, his body trembled and his arms failed to hold him up. He dropped to rest on the top of Sherlock, pushing inside him as deep as he could.

"Sher… I'm going to… I'm coming," John barely managed to say as Sherlock's thighs tightened around his hips, bringing them even closer, "God, Sherlock, yes!" he cried out and then he was coming, Sherlock shivered at the sight of John's face, and the sensation of his trembling body against his own.

John's vision went white, as the orgasm went through his body. He felt Sherlock's sweaty arse sliding underneath him as he spilled his come inside him. As if from the distance he heard Sherlock mumbling "_John, John, John_" and then there where hands brushing through his hair, caressing his shoulders, holding him close, soothing his shaking body.

He inhaled the scent of Sherlock's damp hair. His trusts became slower, painfully lazy, but he was still sliding in deeply, feeling Sherlock's hole become slicker from his come. When the dizziness left his head, and his body stopped shaking, John sat up, looking down at Sherlock. He took painter's still hard cock in his hand, and started to pump him.

Sherlock moaned loudly underneath his touch, feeling his arse stretched and sore, but still filled with John's hot, softening, pulsing cock. His back arched and hips jerked up hungrily as John's hand was stroking his arousal. His palms fisted the sheets, his toes curled, and a lovely warmth filled his belly. It took only one look at John, kneeling in front of him on the mattress, with his cock still buried inside his arse, and Sherlock came in John's hand. His sperm spilled onto his chest and stomach, dripping down from John's fingers.

The aftershocks still hasn't left him when he felt John's cock sliding out of him, and he hissed. He felt dip next to him and when he turned his head he saw John lying on his back, panting.

"You're mine now," John breathed and pulled Sherlock for a kiss, the painter's still shaking arms embraced his body as Sherlock murmured "Yes."

...

Warm, golden sunlight filled the atelier, coming through widely opened window. Dust danced in the air and a light breeze disturbed the drawings that were pinned to the wall. John and Sherlock were lying in bed, legs and arms tangled together, white sheets barely covering them. They could hear voices coming from the street, but the atmosphere up there, in their attic, was still peaceful and sleepy. Sherlock's body was even more pale in the sunlight, his lean figure looking like a marble statue. John was playing with Sherlock's curls, tangling them around his fingers.

"How do you feel?" John asked quietly, moving his hand down to brush over Sherlock's ribs and rested it on his hip.  
"Never been better, " Sherlock answered, his voice low and soft, "you?"  
"God, Sherlock. You were absolutely fantastic."  
"If you will keep saying that, you'll spoil me too soon," Sherlock smirked at him.  
"Don't exaggerate, I only said that to you once, the day we met. Anything I said after that was about your art, not you," John teased, corners of his mouth twitching to smile.  
"Ah yes…" Sherlock picked up, "I also told you something the day we met. Remember? I told you that your leg is perfectly fine."  
"Well?"  
"Well…" Sherlock raised his eyebrow as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "where is your cane?"

John's eyes widened and creases appeared on his forehead. He looked down at his leg, as if he expected to see the cane there, next to it, a sight so familiar to him, something he was seeing every time he looked down. Then his eyes nervously scanned the room.

"I… I left it at home. I just… forgot it," he finally said, puzzled, "you were right, oh my God."  
"Of course."  
"Sherlock you're absolutely fanta-" John began, but Sherlock's laugh interrupted him, "wonderful. Brilliant. Amazing," he finished eventually, punctuating every word with a kiss.

* * *

dearest readers!  
as you can see we have finally reached the porn that was sort of silently promised since the very beginning, as i rated the story M. i hope you liked it.  
but taking the porn aside, that was quite a romantic chapter, wasn't it?

it seems that they lived happily ever after... w-r-o-n-g.  
they did live happily, but only until next week and chapter 7. yes, yes, we have a plot twist ahead!

see you next week then, love you, x.


	7. Letter in the Pocket

Spring turned into summer, and believe it or not, it was the most beautiful summer that Paris had ever seen. Days were hot and nights were bright with the light from cafés in Montmartre and Montparnasse – the artistic districts – which were open till dawn. Champs-Élysées were always crowded and people tried to cool themselves near the fountains and in shadows that trees provided.

John was barely present in his house; it was full of servants, meaning no privacy, and he really didn't want his father finding out what sort of life he was leading. And what a life it was! He spent almost all his time with Sherlock, and he had never been happier, he had never felt so alive before. Life with Sherlock was so different from the stiff atmosphere and etiquette of the upper classes he was used to. John quickly discovered that the painter lived day by day; not caring for anything because he didn't really have anything, wearing worn-out trousers and old, baggy shirts, spending all of his money on paint and pigments. It was strangely refreshing to John, and all the little everyday things seemed more valuable, truer.

They were spending a lot of time in the atelier. Sherlock had started painting in his newly discovered style, and it turned out to be a great success. They took some of his new works to Moulin de la Galette, and Sherlock's colleagues went absolutely crazy about them. They admired his skill of capturing the soul of the portrayed. Soon, there came more and more buying offers and Sherlock had to admit that his paintings had never sold so well before. He also got several offers to sell John's portrait, but that was the only thing he refused to give away.

One day, they spent the entire day on a farm in Giverny, about 50 miles away from Paris. They sat on the grass, watched Monet as he painted water lilies, capturing the fleeting impressions of sunlight flickering between the trees along with golden spots dancing on the water. Sherlock's only comment on that was an annoyed roll of his eyes, but John enjoyed himself greatly. Sherlock preferred to kiss John over contemplating Monet's work. Having his back pressed to the ground, grass tickling his ears, having John close. John, to be honest, preferred that too.

Another day they went to the Louvre where John spent hours in front of a painting by Raphael. They walked the halls, admired the paintings, and John noticed that some of the angels painted by Renaissance masters resembled Sherlock very much. Their delicate, almost androgenic beauty was fragile and ethereal, their hair always curly, bodies slender and pale. Sherlock claimed not to notice the resemblance.  
"It supposed to be a compliment, you know," John said, "Just look at them, they're beautiful."  
John caught the glimpse of a self-satisfied smirk that appeared on Sherlock's face.

Then Sherlock took him on a tour around Montmartre where they visited other artists' ateliers. Sherlock's friends showed John their works, telling him about the way they saw the world.

John met the pretentious Degas * who painted ballet dancers. He took them to the theatre where they sat backstage, watching dancers rest after the rehearsal. Sherlock even made some sketches.

John also met other artists, each of them different and unique, but all of them equally passionate.

The slightly weird Cezanné **, with his landscapes and the strangely geometrical still lifes. John couldn't explain it but despite Cezannés paintings being colourful and vivid, he somehow found them depressing and sad.

The rude and proud Manet ***, whose atelier was always filled with friends and lovers, naked models giggling in corners. He annoyed Sherlock more than anyone, but John sensed fondness between them.

The quiet and delicate Fantin **** with an enormous mirror hanging in his atelier. He was a portraitist but he loved to paint melancholic self-portraits above all.

They all scanned John from head to toe and smiled at Sherlock. John admired their paintings, and all the artists quickly liked him, because he had kind words for all of them.

Sometimes they stayed up all nights, spending time in cafés where artists met, getting ridiculously drunk with absinthe, laughing, playing cards and dice. For the first couple of times Sherlock had to carry a barely conscious John home, as the man had never drunk absinthe before. After being up all night, they would always spend the entire next day in bed in Sherlock's atelier. They would sleep, talk and make love till noon, and afterwards Sherlock would teach John how to paint, leading his hand with his own. They could paint and talk for hours.

"You're getting really good at it," Sherlock praised him once with a soft kiss on his cheek.  
"I have a very good teacher, he deserves the credit," John said, before turning his head to let their lips meet.

And after sunset they would go to another café, to waste their money on alcohol and gambling.

John still received invitations from the LeBlancs', but he ignored all of them, flinching at the mere thought of Lady Sarah flirting with him. Lady Sarah, in fact, came to John's house once to persuade him to attend a dinner at their's, but he told his butler to say that he was not at home. He would rather spend another night with Sherlock, and so he did.

They made love for the whole evening and then they went out. The artistic district felt like home for John now and this life seemed so much more real to him. They met a young and beautiful painter, Berthe Morisot *****, who was Manet's sister-in-law. She had light brown hair and deep dark eyes that seemed to notice the smallest detail of a person the second she laid her eyes on them. They bought her a glass of absinthe and in return, she quickly drew them a double portrait. She managed to catch a brief moment when Sherlock glimpsed at John with heartwarming fondness.

Yes, life was good, everything seemed so simple. They were together and nothing else mattered. Until John received another letter from his father, that was.

When it arrived in the mail John was not at home, and thus the letter waited for him on the desk in his study for an entire day. Finally, John returned home in the evening, in a wonderful mood because he and Sherlock had just spent the day in Bois de Boulogne, sketching horseback riders ******. But the smile disappeared from John's face the moment he saw the letter. He didn't expect anything good to be written there, but the truth turned out to be even worse. John sank heavily in his armchair when he read the first few lines, his face turning grey as he kept reading.

_My dear Son,_

_I must say your previous letter disappointed me very much. I had expected to hear more from you about your acquaintance with the LeBlanc family. Monsieur Apollinaire LeBlanc wrote to me himself; he expressed his will, and also a great hope, for his daughter to become your wife. However, from your letter I could assume that you have no serious plans considering Lady Sarah, which I could understand if you had another prominent candidate. I believe I don't have to remind you that I am supporting you with money now, only because I hope your marriage will help us connect with another wealthy family, and make our name even more respectable in the business world._

_I would be willing to wait a bit longer for you to be certain about Lady Sarah, but even more disturbing information reached me. Monsieur LeBlanc wrote me that lately you have been ignoring or rejecting all of their invitations and visit cards. If that wasn't enough, he was so kind to inform me with what sort of people you are associating yourself now. You are said to have been seen in the most dubious districts of Paris, in the company of people of very questionable reputation. This is not what I am giving money for. I was even more terrified to find out that one of those people is the second son of my late colleague, Mister Holmes. This is simply unacceptable; do you know what sort of rumours I heard about this man?!_

_In this case I have no other choice but to insist you return home. I will not allow my only son to bring shame upon me like the young Holmes had brought upon his family. I have arranged your engagement with Miss Mary Morstan, her family is well-known and respected, but they have just returned from Canada and don't have any connections in London yet. Since you don't have anything else to do in Paris and much to do here, I expect you home soon. I believe I don't have to explain that if you will not fulfil my wishes I will have to disinherit you. You may be my only son, but, as I said, you will not bring shame upon our family. I hope that will bring you to your senses._

_I'm sending you a ferry ticket for they journey across the Channel. Do not disappoint me this time, son._

_Your father,  
Hamish Watson_

John put away the letter with shaking hands. For a moment he couldn't breathe, sharp pain piercing his chest making that impossible. He fought the urge to cry, fisting his hands around armrests. So, this was it. Somewhere deep inside, John had always known that this life was too good to be true, or to last. His life with Sherlock was short and intense, and it had just ended.

He couldn't sleep all night, tossing and turning in his bed as he tried to put together what he would say to Sherlock. But how could he explain something like this? He shuddered at the thought that tomorrow he'd have to tell Sherlock that he was leaving. He had no idea how to bring himself to do it. Because there was no choice, no other option, was there? Not for John.

After reading the letter, his mind immediately made a quick, military calculation: his father was serious; if John stayed, he'd lose his money, and he'd confirm his father's suspicions about what sort of life he was living here with Sherlock. If John stayed it meant that neither he nor Sherlock would be able to return to England, to their families. His father would make sure of that. The law no longer demanded the death penalty for homosexuality in England, but there were still serious retributions. So if John loses all his money and they aren't able to afford living in Paris, there will be no way back. Could he risk Sherlock's life like this? The answer was simply: No, he couldn't. If he had to put his own happiness at stake, let it be so. At least Sherlock would be safe.

The night sky was already getting lighter, when something hit his window. John, still awake, propped himself up on his elbows, and then it happened again. He slowly got out of bed and approached the window, pulling the heavy curtains aside. There was Sherlock standing outside, in his garden, playfully tossing small pieces of gravel. John opened the window.

"What are you doing here?" he called, leaning against the windowsill, "It's the middle of the night."  
"It is not. The dawn is close. I have to show you something, but you need to hurry," Sherlock answered him with a smirk.  
"All right… I will be right there," John said, sighing as he closed the window.

He got dressed quickly and then hesitated for a moment. Finally, with a heavy heart, John took the letter from his study and put it into his pocket.

Sherlock didn't tell him where they were going; he only said that it was a surprise. The sun was already rising when they arrived at the bank of the river Seine. They stood on the Pont du Carrousel, from where they could see small ships drifting slowly through the waters. They leaned against the balustrade and looked out over the river. The city was still quiet and peaceful around them, only the statues decorating the ends of the bridge were witnesses to their presence there. And when the sun rose, John saw it. The red ball climbed the cold, gray sky to hang above the river. The world around them burst into colours: yellow, orange, pink, violet, and the water mirrored them, sparkling with gold as the sun was getting higher.

"See?" Sherlock asked quietly, looking at John, "It looks exactly like on Monet's painting. I can see it now, John."  
"It's beautiful," John agreed.  
"I thought you would like it," Sherlock smiled and leaned in to kiss him, but his lips had barely brushed over John's before the other man stepped back.  
"What's wrong?" Sherlock frowned, surprised.  
John was looking down, breathing heavily and said nothing.  
"John…?" Sherlock's voice revealed concern, he put his hand on John's shoulder, and then finally John looked up at him.  
"I got a letter yesterday. From my father," he said quietly.  
"Oh?"

John took the letter out of his pocked and handed it to Sherlock. The painter took it hesitantly, his eyes running nervously between the piece of paper in his hand and John's face.

"I have to go to England, Sherlock," John spat before Sherlock could even read the first few lines.  
"Oh… for how long?"  
John shook his head and let out a bitter laugh "For good. He wants me to stay there."  
"But… you're not going to…"  
"I have to. He found out about… you. About us. He threatens to disinherit me if I won't go back to London and get married." John's eyes fixed on the ground, reluctant to meet Sherlock's. "I have to go."

Sherlock's lips parted and he raised his eyebrows. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts and speak again.  
"John, you… you can't. I… stay with me, please. If your father disinherits you, then who cares? You don't need him, you don't need his money. My family couldn't accept my choices so I left them, they haven't supported me with money for years. We can just… stay together."

"You don't understand. By yourself maybe you can manage, but when there'll be two of us… how long do you think it'll take until we won't be able to afford food anymore? My family is rich, I'm a retired military officer, I don't have a profession… you wouldn't be able to earn enough money for the both of us."

"But my paintings are selling well now. We'll be just fine, John, you'll see."

"It can end any time, Sherlock. To be an artist is a very unsteady occupation, you don't know how it'll be in a year or two. Besides… if I do this, if I stay, there will be no return for me. For us. My father is too proud, if he finds out the truth about us… he will put me on trial as soon as my foot touches British soil, and yours as well."

"You have decided already, haven't you?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed.  
"I have to. It's not only for my sake, Sherlock, I can't risk your safety as well."  
"Oh, but you can risk my…" Sherlock hesitated, there was anger in his voice.  
"What?"  
"Heart."  
"Please, don't make it harder than it already is. This is the hardest thing I had to do in my entire life."  
"And yet you're doing it. Just like that."

"Do I have a choice?! I can stay here with you, but soon we won't even be able to rent a room. I can stay and marry Lady Sarah, who annoys me beyond words, and live here knowing that you are so close and yet so far away. I can go to London and marry this woman my father arranged for me, and live the rest of my life with the few happy memories I have with you. The choice is simple, Sherlock. Soon you'll understand that this is the best I can do in this case."

Sherlock's face expressed pure disbelief; he only let out a shaky breath as John finished talking. It was probably the first time in his life that he couldn't find any words. He was frowning, and his eyes were cold in the morning light, cheeks flushed slightly from the chilly wind that came from the river.

"I'm leaving in three days. This is a goodbye," John spoke again, after a longer pause. His teeth clenched as he struggled not to scream in desperation.

Sherlock still didn't say anything, piercing him with those icy eyes, and John felt he couldn't stand it anymore.

"I'm sorry," he said dryly and turned around, walking away.

Sherlock stood alone on the bridge, looking at John's figure disappearing in the distance. When the shock finally left him, his eyes went teary and soon he couldn't see his surroundings anymore, his vision blurred. People started to appear on the streets around him, but Sherlock had never felt so alone. He didn't notice the crowd passing him as the new day rose. And though the sun was getting higher and the day warmer, a cold chill ran through his body to nestle in his chest. The summer was over.

* * *

* Edgar Degas, painter  
** Paul Cezanne, painter  
*** Edouard Manet, who we already know  
**** Henri Fantin Latour, painter  
***** Berthe Morisot, painter  
****** Bois de Boulogne, public park

dearest readers, i'm sorry about the delay this week but here it is.  
i wish you a very happy angsting along with me till next week.  
*evil wink*


	8. Hearts Miles Away

**Paris**

It had been six weeks since John left, and Gustave had to carry an unconscious Sherlock home for the God-knows-which time. He stopped counting after eight nights, and that was almost two weeks earlier.

The first time Sherlock brought himself to the state in which he was unable to recall his own name, not to mention the inability to stand up straight, was the day when John's train left from Gare Saint-Lazare. When Gustave visited Sherlock's atelier that evening, Mrs Hudson informed him that he had left in the morning, and hadn't returned home since then. Gustave knew him too well not to instantly realize where he had most probably gone. The landlady's reddened eyes betrayed that she knew as well. And they were both right.

Since that first time it only kept getting worse and Gustave was eventually positively petrified to look Mrs Hudson in the eyes when he was bringing Sherlock back home from the opium den over and over again.

On that day he had to check in three different dens before he found Sherlock. He looked worse than ever and Gustave couldn't remember him being that skinny. His skin wasn't even pale anymore, it was grey and seemed transparent with swollen blue veins visible underneath. Sherlock was lying on the wooden floor, with a blanket tucked under his head to hold it more or less upright. His long, delicate fingers with dirty, livid nails were clutching at a porcelain pipe.

Gustave kneeled next to him on the floor and touched the younger man's forehead with his palm. Sherlock had a fever, was sticky with sweat and dirt, and God, he smelled bad. His eyes were closed and shallow, jerky breaths were escaping through his dried, parted lips. Gustave tore the pipe away from Sherlock's unconscious embrace and his arms fell numbly to his sides.

Courbet sighed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body, forcing him to stand up. The young painter's head was lolling back and forth, his limbs were like jelly and he slid from Gustave's arms and fell to his knees, but even then he didn't wake up. Gustave muttered a curse under his breath, and forced Sherlock to his feet again. When both men were more or less face to face, Gustave slapped Sherlock's cheek with an open palm. Sherlock's head fell to the side, but even then he remained unconscious. Gustave cursed again and tucked his right arm under Sherlock's knees, picking him up.

Gustave left the opium den holding Sherlock in his arms. Thin as he was, it wasn't such a hard task for the older man to carry him. They weren't far from Mrs Hudson's place so Gustave didn't even bother trying to stop a carriage, he knew that none would take them. He carried Sherlock across the streets of Paris, and, as usual, he promised himself that this was the last time he was helping the boy.

Whilst they were walking, Sherlock woke up for a moment and sighed heavily. Courbet looked down at him, his eyes were half opened and he was looking up at the night sky, but after few seconds they rolled to the back of his head, and he lost consciousness again.

When Sherlock woke up in his own bed, the first word to escape his lips with a husky breath was "_John_", but instead of John it was Gustave who appeared by his side.

"How do you feel, you prat?" Gustave asked with much more tenderness in his voice than he intended.

Sherlock opened his eyes and regretted it immediately, though it was still night-time, the dim candlelight seemed brighter than the sun as it pierced his eyes. He groaned and rolled to the side and then he regretted doing that too, as his body shook with nausea.

Gustave quickly placed a metal bucket on the floor next to Sherlock's head, and the younger man vomited into it violently. Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes, and his throat burned unpleasantly as he returned the contents of his stomach into the bucket, his fingers squeezing the wooden bed frame.

Gustave brushed away dark curls from Sherlock's damp forehead while the man fell back onto the pillow with a muffled sob.

"Do you need water?" the older man asked and Sherlock nodded weakly "Sherlock, this needs to stop," Gustave spoke again, supporting Sherlock's head as he was drinking, "you're hurting yourself, can't you see?"  
"I don't care," came Sherlock's usual answer.  
"Ah yes, I forgot," Courbet rolled his eyes, "you decided to end your life in the most pathetic and painful way imagined."  
"Shut up," Sherlock breathed heavily.  
There was a longer silence between them, Gustave sighed and sat next to Sherlock on the bed. The younger painter cracked open one eye and looked at him.

"Don't you remember how it was before _Jean_?" Gustave already knew he'll regret starting this topic again, and that it'll most likely end with Sherlock shouting hysterically at him, "you were always so alone and so sad… you looked sad when you thought no one could see you. I've never seen you happier than when you were with _Jean_. Have you ever even had another friend before? God knows you only tolerate me because we have similar painting style. But he was your true friend, Sherlock, he made you a better man, you owe him so much."  
"Yes, and it has all gone to waste. He… he took it all and left," Sherlock spat and then his words turned into a rough cough.  
"Isn't he worth fighting for?" Courbet asked eventually.  
"Leave me alone," Sherlock rolled on the bed to face the wall, his body shaking all over.  
"Sure, so you can sneak out again? I'm not leaving until you're sobered up. I will not have you dead because of your own stubbornness and stupidity!"  
"Whatever," Sherlock mumbled into the pillow.  
Gustave hesitated by the door "I'm serious, Sherlock, it's been six weeks… this needs to stop. I won't rescue you every single time, you know."  
"Yes you will."  
"I'm downstairs if you need me." Gustave sighed as he slammed the door of Sherlock's atelier shut, leaving the young painter alone in the dark room.

Sherlock tucked his arms in to stop his body from shaking and curled on the bed. Every muscle hurt him, and his head was about to explode. He buried his face in his pillow and tried very hard not to cry.

...

**London**

Watsons' house was an impressive, sandstone building in the southwest London. With its wide windows, a neatly maintained garden and ivy sprouts crawling up the walls, it looked very welcoming.

John's mother died from pneumonia when he was very young, and so he and his older sister, Harriet, were living there only with their father. And the full staff of servants of course. When Harriet got married, she moved to her husband's house, and when John left to India, and then to Paris, this huge house became almost empty, as its only resident was John's father. This is why Harriet and her husband, Timothy, decided to move in with him, and they took the entire west wing for themselves.

John didn't know if he ever liked this house. Well, he didn't _dislike_ it. When he was a kid there was much room for him to play, and his father had a particular fondness for foreign furniture, so the mansion was, in fact, very beautiful and luxurious. But that was before. Since he came back from Paris he positively _hated_ the place.

He woke up, as every morning, hoping to see the little room in the attic, with piles of canvas, and the big window through which he could see the roofs of Paris while still lying in bed. But instead of that, as every single morning for the past six weeks, he opened his eyes to see all those ridiculous things: expensive Persian carpets, china vases, mahogany armchairs, heavy velvety curtains.

How unimportant and worthless seemed all those things compared to the simple beauty of water lilies that he collected for Sherlock when they were in Giverny. He rolled his trousers up to his knees and stepped into the lake, and when he came out, he had both hands full of flowers and his clothes were completely wet and ruined. Monet shouted at him for disturbing the water, while he tried to paint the peacefully floating lilies, but John couldn't care less about what Monet was saying, because Sherlock took the flowers from his cold, wet hands and kissed him, laughing against his lips. John could give away the whole furnishings of this room for that one moment in his life.

John hid his head under the duvet at the memory and cursed the sun that was rising higher with every minute.

When he went downstairs for breakfast there was only Harriet sitting at the table. She was wearing a green morning dress, with elbow-length sleeves and white sash around her waist.

"I still can't get used to you dressing that way," John sent her a faint smile as he took a sit next to her.  
"Ah, that's what good and sweet wives are wearing, I need to at least keep appearances" Harriet winked at him from behind her cup of tea.

John remembered how his sister used to cut her dresses with scissors to make them shorter, so she could climb trees and run around the garden with their dogs. She was around ten then, and she was a nightmare to their nanny. He smirked at that memory.

"So, where is everybody?" he asked after a moment.  
"Timothy is already in the bank and father at Morstans'," his sister replied, "they're going to find another cook for your wedding."  
"We have a cook" John said flatly.  
"Yes, but there will be nearly three hundred guests, our cook will not manage to prepare all the food on his own," Harriet explained, and poured him some tea.  
"Of course" John muttered, looking down at his plate.

Harriet took few more bites of her breakfast before speaking again.

"Listen, John. I wanted to talk to you about this earlier, but it never seemed the right time, and now when we finally are alone…" she hesitated, John didn't even look up at her, "since you came back… you seem a different person. I'm worried about you."  
"I'm fine," John was still staring at his empty plate.  
"Oh don't give me that! I can see something is wrong," when John didn't respond, Harriet sighed and continued, "John, what happened in Paris?"  
John instantly shot a look at her, "What?!"  
"Well, you don't have to be a detective to see that something clearly did happen," she rose her eyebrows at him, "I know that father sent you a letter, with no less than a threat, forcing you to come back to London. And then all of a sudden this whole marriage thing… have you even known this Mary before the engagement?"  
John remained silent, his eyes escaped to the side again.  
"Oh my God," Harriet hit the table with her teacup with such force she nearly smashed it.

John quickly got up from his chair and turned to leave the room.  
"I'm going back to bed, I have a migraine," he said with a wave of his hand and left. Going upstairs he winced at the pain in his leg.

...

**Paris**

The next time when Gustave visited Sherlock, he was glad to hear from Mrs Hudson, that he had been sober for over a week. Walking upstairs to his atelier, Gustave expected to find Sherlock in a much better shape. He knocked lightly on the door, but hearing no answer for a longer moment, he pushed the door open and stepped in.

Sherlock was standing in the opposite end of a room, facing the window with his arms crossed at his chest. His thin frame was surrounded by the light coming through the glass. He was dressed neatly and the whole room was also tidied. Gustave smiled at that.

"Sherlock?" Courbet spoke quietly, still standing in the entrance. Sherlock shifted a little, but neither responded nor turned to face him, "You look good. I'm glad you got yourself together."

Sherlock kept looking through the window, though Gustave could see how his muscles tensed. He tilted his head slightly to the side and finally spoke: "I had to sell it."  
"Sell what?" Gustave asked.  
"John's portrait," Sherlock's low voice almost echoed in the room.

For a while none of them spoke, these words hung between them. Sherlock turned his head back to the window and stood there like a statue.

"You… you sold the portrait… _Jean's_ portrait?" Gustave finally managed, "but… you have never wanted to sell it, you turned down every offer… Oh God, Sherlock, do you really think it'll make things better? _Are you_ feeling any better now, when you got rid of it? You were so happy with him, and now what, you think you can erase all those memories? It'll only make you bitter."  
"I needed money," Sherlock answered simply.  
"If you're short on money you should just ask me, I can lend you some."  
Sherlock shook his head, "There was this one man, he wanted to buy it from the very beginning. He offered me a very good price, and I needed that money… fast."  
"What for?" Gustave looked at him suspiciously.  
"For tickets" Sherlock finally turned around to face him, his eyes were ice cold but his cheeks were flushed.  
"Tickets…?" the older man's voice lowered to a whisper, but his face brightened.  
"Yes. I'm leaving for London by the end of the week."

...

**London**

During the whole dinner John remained silent. He was sitting stiffly between his father and his future wife, Mary. Food could barely go through his throat, he could feel his sister's inspecting look from across the table. He hated those dinners.

They ate with Morstans twice a week, every Tuesday in their house, and every Saturday at Morstrans'. It was Tuesday, but being in his own house didn't make John any more comfortable. On the contrary, he felt the pressure to act as a host, and there was nothing in the world he wanted to do less.

"What is it? Don't you like the lamb?" Mary asked him quietly, leaning in.  
"Sorry? Oh, no it's just… I was just thinking," John answered, looking at the untouched food on his plate.  
"Are you sure you're all right? You look a bit pale…" Mary placed her hand over his.  
"Yes, of course, I'm fine." John breathed.  
"Nevertheless, I think that after the meal we should go outside and have some fresh air. What do you think, a little walk to the garden?" she smiled at him.  
"It'll be a pleasure," John mechanically took her hand up to his lips.

When they went outside later, the sun was already setting and the pleasantly cool air made John relax a bit, or maybe it was the absence of his father in his nearest surroundings that had that effect. He and Mary walked hand in hand along the row of rosebushes. She was clad in a sapphire dress with navy blue ribbons and her long, light hair cascaded onto her shoulders.

"Are you sure everything is all right?" Mary asked as they sat on a white wooden bench, "you seemed as if you were miles away today."  
"Everything is just fine, don't worry," John squeezed her hand gently.  
"Don't you like me?" she said eventually after minutes of silence.  
"What do you mean?"  
"Well… our marriage is… well it's arranged by our parents, and… I was thinking maybe you're not pleased with me… You always seem so tense and… upset. Is it because of me?"  
"No, of course not. I'm sorry you feel that way. I like you, really, you're beautiful, kind, and… how could I wish for a better wife?" John took hold of both of her hands and smiled to her, but the smile was less reassuring than he intended it to be. Mary still looked concerned, but she nodded.

John placed his fingers on her cheek and stroked tenderly, when she looked up at him he leaned in and pressed a kiss on her lips. Mary rested her hand on John's arm and melted into the kiss, feeling his cool fingers against her wind-flushed cheek.

When the kiss broke they looked each other in the eyes, Mary's eyes were light blue, but in that moment they were darker, honest and sparkling. John tangled their fingers together and pressed both their hands to his chest.

"We should probably go back to the house, it's getting late. I suppose your father will want to leave soon," John spoke quietly.  
"Yes, let's go," Mary agreed and stood up from the bench, "although I'd love to stay here with you…"  
"We will have all the time after we get married" John gave her a faint smile and led her to the house.

When the Morstans' carriage drove away and disappeared into the night, John felt all of his muscles turn into jelly. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his palm and headed upstairs. He heard his father saying something to him, but John only nodded absently and wished him goodnight.

"I have a migraine, I want to lie down," John explained when his father pointed out that it's still early; and he went upstairs, grimacing at the numbness in his leg.

John closed the door of his bedroom and leaned against it with a long sigh. He tried, he really tried. He was trying for nearly two months now. Mary was indeed beautiful, smart, funny and kind: a very interesting young woman. But no matter how hard John tried, he couldn't feel anything. He supposed he liked her, she was nice and sweet, but there was nothing more. It was definitely not what a husband-to-be should feel to his future wife.

His heart was breaking into pieces every time he held her hand or kissed her. He felt like he was betraying Sherlock, he wished he was with Sherlock, not with her, and therefore he felt like he was betraying Mary as well. And none of this was her fault after all.

John didn't even bother to call for a butler, he undressed quickly, tossing his clothes over a chair, and slipped under the covers of his bed. He stretched his arm across the empty space next to him and imagined how would it feel to have Mary lying there.

He knew he made his choice, and he knew it was the right thing to do. He was protecting Sherlock, and only that mattered. _Sherlock_. John's heart leapt at the thought and the image of Mary in his bed was replaced with a familiar dark-haired figure. John shook his head and groaned into the pillow.

Every look, every touch, every kiss that John shared with Mary was really meant for Sherlock. John saw him every time he closed his eyes, and even though he felt terrible, he couldn't help it.

Suddenly there was knocking at the door and John shifted on his elbow.

"Enter," he called, and when the door opened, Harriet appeared in the room.  
"John? How are you feeling?" she asked, stepping inside.  
"I have a headache," he answered and fell back onto the pillows.  
"So I heard, father told me you have a migraine again" Harriet sat next to him on the bed, "I'm worried, you have those headaches almost every day since you got back."  
"It's nothing… I just can't get used to the climate. Don't forget I spent years in India before Paris."  
"I think it's something else…" his sister sighed, "I think it's your way to escape from father and all the wedding planning."  
John said nothing to that, staring at the ceiling.  
"All right, if you still don't want to talk to me…" she got up and turned to leave, "but if by any chance it is a real headache, I have something for you", she placed a small glass bottle on his nightstand, "It's a rose oil, you rub it into your temples, it really helps."  
"Thank you," John looked at her and caught a glimpse of sympathy in her eyes.

When Harriet left, John reached for the rose oil bottle to put it into the drawer of his nightstand. Inside the drawer he found some French francs and a folded piece of paper, he faintly remembered that the day he came back from Paris he put the contains of his trouser pockets into that drawer and he forgot about it soon afterwards.

He took out the piece of paper and, shifting on his arm to a half-sitting position, unfolded it. It was the drawing of him and Sherlock made by Berthe Morisot one night in the café in Montmartre. John froze at the sight and scanned the sketch with wide eyes. He looked around the room as if afraid that someone will see him, see _it_. Eventually he put it back into the drawer and close it loudly. No matter how hard he was trying he couldn't summon Mary's image again. There was only Sherlock.

* * *

dearest readers, i don't know about you but i made myself sad.  
i'm trying to improve the mood in chapter 9, but i have a feeling that the angst will not leave us until the epilogue.  
but you know i love you, x.


	9. A Stranger in the Dark

**London**

"I really don't see why do we have to do this," John complained as he and Harriet left the tailor shop. It started to rain so he opened his umbrella and offered his sister to join him underneath it.  
"Because you're getting married soon, did you forget already?" Harriet put on her gloves, cold wind sent unpleasant chills down their spines, blowing raindrops right into their faces.  
"But have you seen my wardrobe? I have more suits and tail-coats than I need and, frankly, I could wear my uniform for the wedding." John helped Harriet get into their carriage, his sister's long dress was already stained with mud.  
"I know, John, but father wished for you to have a new outfit for this occasion," Harriet shut the carriage door behind him with a relief, that was truly an awful day.  
"Of course," John sank into his seat looking out of the little window, raindrops run down the glass as the carriage moved. "I'm exhausted," he added, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.  
"Well, we still have a few things to do today. We won't be back home until supper."

John only sighed and leaned his head against the window and shivered at coldness of the glass against his forehead. They drove a couple of streets away and John still said nothing more to Harriet, staring into the rain, when something caught his eye. In the crowd outside he saw a tall, thin figure that looked strangely familiar. The man was dressed in a black coat and his dark, curly hair was damp from the rain. John cleaned the glass with his sleeve to see more clearly, but their carriage already moved past the man.

"We need to stop here!" John said to Harriet before he could even think what he was doing, his sister gave him a surprised look, but John was already calling out to the coachman to stop the carriage.

He get out of the vehicle right into the rain and ran in the direction where the man was standing just moments ago. He looked around nervously, scanning the faces of pedestrians, but he was nowhere to be found.

"John, are you out of your mind?! Come back here!" Harried called from the carriage. "What was that?" she asked when John was back inside, head to toe wet.

"Sorry, I just… I thought I saw someone…" John answered absently, shaking from the cold, and once again looked out of the window.

"Saw who?"  
"Just an… old friend."  
"Well, if it's an old friend then I suppose he'll come to your wedding, no need to chase him in the rain like a mad man," Harriet rolled her eyes and the carriage drove away.

...

It was around 8 o'clock when they came back home. They joined their father in the dining room for supper, and while they were eating, Mr Watson asked about the preparations for the wedding. But it was Harriet who did most of the talking. John was, as for the most of the day, lost in his thoughts, still contemplating that oddly familiar-looking stranger he saw on the street.

He was poking food on his plate with the fork and Harriet's voice reached him as if from the distance, his mind was focused on this one thought: is it possible that it was _him_ today? _Of course not_, the answer came to him, _but what if_…

John stayed downstairs in the drawing room, nearly until midnight. Everyone else went to sleep and John even dismissed his butler. He wanted to be alone, as the quiet darkness of the almost asleep household calmed his restless mind. He listened to the steady sound of the rain hitting windowpanes, along with the ticking of the clock, and he managed to convince himself that he saw nothing earlier that day. It was only his mind fooling him, nothing more.

With that thought, John lit up the lamp and left the drawing room, heading upstairs. Dim, trembling light he carried softened the darkness of the hall and the house seemed smaller. His bedroom door clicked open and John slipped inside, the room brightened up when he put the lamp on the round table. He started to undress and he was half way through unbuttoning his shirt, when something hit the glass of his window.

He tensed immediately. That was definitely way too many strangely-familiar things for a single day. Something hit the window again. John quickly crossed the room and looked outside. His bedroom windows were looking out on the garden; he saw trees and rosebushes, a bench, and an alley, but nothing out of the ordinary. He hesitated for a moment, trying to convince himself again that it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but eventually something inside him snapped, and John grabbed the lamp from the table.

He nearly ran downstairs, trying to be quiet and not to wake anyone up. He couldn't slow down, something inside him told him to hurry. Anticipation.

John quietly opened the back door and stepped outside, the light from the lamp he was holding rested on the nearest bushes and rain-wet leaves glistened in the night. He looked around and not daring to call out, raised the lamp higher. The grass was cool and wet underneath his feet, and it was only then when he realized he run out of the house barefoot. When this realisation creeped into John's mind, he felt like a complete fool. He let out a shaky, breathy laugh and turned around to make his way back to the house, but then there was someone standing right in front of him.

John gasped, his first reaction was to take a step back, he looked up at the stranger and froze.  
"Sher…" John breathed, choking on the word as he felt something squeezing tightly inside his chest.  
The other man put a finger to his lips, and John understood.  
"Upstairs," he whispered and walked back towards the house, nodding at the other man to follow.

They went up the stairs in complete silence, John didn't dare to risk another look at this unexpected guest. His heart was beating so madly inside his chest he was sure everyone in the house could hear it. Finally, when John's bedroom door closed behind the both of them, he realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled loudly and put the lamp on the table.

He hesitated for a few seconds before looking up at the other man again, but when he did, he had to force himself not to throw himself at him, hold him tight and never let go again.

"What are you doing here?" John let out a trembling whisper.

"I… I had to see you" Sherlock answered quietly, "I came to-"  
"Oh God, Sherlock" John interrupted him and took a step forward, closing the space between them.

John took Sherlock's hand and tangled their fingers together. Sherlock's touch was soft but strong, he felt the painter's fingers wrapping firmly around his own. He rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes, thinking about how different it felt compared to Mary's delicate, and fragile fingers. How much better. How right.

"I missed you so much," John said eventually, resting his other palm on the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him down for a kiss.

When their lips met John felt Sherlock smiling against his mouth. John didn't let go of his hand, squeezing those talented fingers and caressing little circles on the back of the painter's palm with his thumb. For a longer moment their lips were just touching, John eagerly drank the beloved, familiar taste from Sherlock's mouth. Then he felt a tongue brushing along his own lower lip, and he let Sherlock in.

John felt an arm slipping behind his back, holding him close. Sherlock deepened the kiss, John's tongue hungrily traced along Sherlock's. Their already flushed lips were hot against each other, John bit lightly at Sherlock's lower lip, causing the man to moan quietly. John himself let out a muffled whimper when painter's perfect lips captured his own as if afraid of letting go even for a second.

Sherlock felt wetness on his cheek and he realized it was a single, hot tear. He didn't know if it was he who cried or if it was John. The tear just ran down the skin and they both felt its salty taste when it rested on their sealed lips.

"I missed you so much," John repeated when the kiss broke for a second, "so much…"  
"I missed you too," Sherlock breathed against his lips.

They exchanged a few more slow and soft kisses, just lazily nipping at each other's lips, before John spoke again.  
"You're soaking wet," he said, running his fingers through Sherlock's damp hair.  
"You too," Sherlock chuckled looking down at John's bare, wet feet.  
"Take this off, you must be freezing," John slipped his hands under Sherlock's coat and jacket and pushed them down his arms, the clothes puddled on the floor.

John's hands moved up along Sherlock's body and rested on his chest. Sherlock felt the warmth of John's touch, only the wet fabric of his shirt separating their skin. John marvelled how the shirt clung to Sherlock's chest, he traced his muscles with his fingers and looked up at him. Their eyes met in silent agreement and John started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

They left the trail of wet clothes on the floor, as they moved towards John's bed. By the time they slipped under the covers, they were both completely naked. John forced his knee between Sherlock's legs and their limbs tangled together as they lied under the duvet, naked and shivering, and _together_.

John ran his hand along Sherlock's side and rested it on the small of his back, bringing him closer. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and pushed his hips forward so their bodies were touching with every inch of their skins.

"You're even more beautiful than I remembered," John whispered and placed a hot kiss against Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock nuzzled his face into John's shoulder, resting on his chest, how they used to sleep every time before. John kissed the top of Sherlock's head, resting his cheek against the mop of his dark curls. And for a longer while they were just lying like this, silent and still, trying to make up for all the lost time, for all those nights they spent separately.

Sherlock was first to break the silence.  
"Make love to me," he said, and John felt his embrace tightening around his body.  
Sherlock's request was so purely honest it sent a wave of heat through John's belly. John didn't know if he had ever seen Sherlock so genuinely and completely emotionally exposed.

It almost left John speechless, he only managed to let out a breathy "Oh" before he pressed his lips to Sherlock's neck, his fingers digging into his pale skin. He kissed his way down Sherlock's throat, slid his tongue into the dip at the base of his throat his teeth scraping along Sherlock's collarbone.

Sherlock let out a quiet moan of approval as John's lips kissed and sucked at his skin. Arching his back, he exposed his neck to John's eager bites, moving his own hands down his body.

Sherlock's hands eagerly wandered between their bodies and found John's already half-hard arousal. He gently tickled the length with tips of his fingers, teasingly brushing up and down the shaft, before taking it in his hand.

John gasped into the skin of Sherlock's shoulder, his hips jerked forward to the touch. His own hands moved down Sherlock's body, tracing along his ribs, mapping every inch of his skin to remind himself of every touch and kiss he once placed there.

Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around John's cock and squeezed at the base. Moving his hand slowly up the shaft, Sherlock found John's lips with his own. As they kissed, tongues melting as they exchanged hot breaths, their lips flushed and wet, Sherlock stroked John's erection to full hardness.

John's hand went down Sherlock's body and, caressing the curve of his arse, it slid between their tangled legs. He cupped Sherlock's balls and rolled them in his palm, wrenching a muffled groan from the man's occupied mouth.

Sherlock pushed his hips forward, his own rock-hard cock twitching for touch, and took hold of both of them together. John's body jolted at the sudden feeling of Sherlock's own, long and hard dick pressing against his length. He tugged at Sherlock's tight sack once again before moving his palm to wrap it around Sherlock's cock.

After a few awkward strokes they found their rhythm, they tangled their fingers together, moving their joined palms up and down their full and aching cocks.

Soon their fingers were wet and slick with precum, heads of their pricks glistening as they squeezed out the wetness with every stroke.

John moved his lips along Sherlock's jaw line, and then nipped at his earlobe before purring right into his ear: "Just lie on your back, I have to kiss every inch of you before I lose my mind."

He straddled Sherlock's hips and, pinning his back into the mattress, he sat atop of him, without losing his grip on their erections. For a moment John just stayed like this, panting, he was looking down at their swollen cocks trapped between their joined fingers, and stroked, slowly, lazily, marvelling at the view of Sherlock wriggling beneath him.

Then, John leaned down and placed a kiss on Sherlock's chest, and then another next to it, and another a little lower. Sherlock exhaled loudly at the loss when he felt John's hand escaping from their arousals, pressed together now between their stomachs. John grabbed both of Sherlock's wrists and pinned them to the bed above his head.

Kissing his way down the painter's body John hummed contentedly at all the familiar feelings: taste and smell, warmth of his body, shaky rises and falls of his chest, sharp angles of his hips pressing into his own skin. John circled his tongue around Sherlock's navel before moving to his hip bones, placing a kiss onto each hollow spot where his hip met his thigh.

Moving his lips from one hip to the other, he teasingly licked the head of Sherlock's abandoned cock. The painter instantly jerked, eager for more, his hard prick throbbing hopelessly against his stomach.

John mouthed the glistening head of Sherlock's cock a few times before finally taking him between his lips. Sherlock let out a long sigh when the warmth of John's mouth closed around him. John sucked gently at the head, his tongue impatiently dancing along the sensitive skin and then swallowed him down his throat, steadying his hips with a firm grip of his hands.

"John, oh… John…" Sherlock muttered under his breath, his hands restlessly clutching at the sheets. John's own palm groped for Sherlock's somewhere under the covers, and when their hands found each other, he squeezed their fingers tightly.

John could feel Sherlock's dick getting even harder inside his mouth as he was sucking him, his head bumping up and down between the painter's legs. The salty taste of precum on his tongue made him moan around the mouthful of cock and he sucked down eagerly, taking in as much as he could.

Soon Sherlock's hips started to move, pushing his arousal into John's mouth in frantic, desperate movements, his breath getting quicker. He could feel John's tongue circling around his glans with each withdraw, his hot breath ghosting against the saliva-wet skin.

Suddenly John took him out of his mouth, Sherlock's cock sprung free from between his lips and rested on his left thigh. John licked his index finger, leaving a trail of saliva, and slid it between Sherlock's buttcheeks, pushing at his tight entrance. Sherlock hissed quietly, his muscles tensed immediately around John's digit.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, soothingly stroking his inner thigh with his other hand, "turn onto your stomach, I'll do this right."

Sherlock rolled on the bed, exposing his backside to John. His cock twitched, now trapped between his stomach and the mattress, Sherlock sighed into the pillow at the pressure.

John settled himself behind Sherlock, between his parted legs, and grabbed his hips with both hands, gently pulling them up just a little. Sherlock wriggled to support himself on his knees, his toes curling in anticipation.

John's hands caressed the curve of Sherlock's arse, stroking gently his creamy flesh, and spread his buttcheeks aside. He leaned down and buried his face between them, darting his tongue to lick at Sherlock's puckered hole. Sherlock's breath hitched, his hips almost involuntarily pushing back on John's tongue circling teasingly around his entrance.

"John…" Sherlock breathed heavily into the pillow, his legs trembling.  
The only answer that came from John was a muffled groan that vibrated on Sherlock's skin, as his tongue was exploring the inside of his tight hole. When he leaned back, Sherlock was panting dangerously loudly, the pillow already damp from his hot breath.

John reached to the nightstand's drawer and took out a small bottle of rose oil. He put some of it on his fingers and then again, slowly pushed one finger into Sherlock's arse. His fingers were well-slickened this time, and Sherlock's hole was nicely welcoming after John prepared it with his tongue, so he felt the painter's muscles relax almost immediately as he pushed inside. John licked his lips, and leaned forward to place a trial of soothing kisses around the base of Sherlock's spine as he fingered him.

By the time Sherlock felt two fingers inside him, scissoring him open, his cock was aching and leaking. He was pushing back at John's fingers eagerly, trying to suppress moans, as his arse was stretched. John's own cock was also twitching painfully, and his breath started to quicken. The inside of Sherlock's hole was hot and soft, John's fingers slid in and out of its wetness easily now. He added a third finger and gasped when Sherlock's back arched, hips swinging sinfully in the rhythm of John's fingers fucking him.

Eventually John slid his fingers out of Sherlock's stretched arse and took hold of his own, heavy and flushed, cock. He stroked himself quickly, spreading the rest of the rose oil on his length, and then the tip of his prick was pushing against Sherlock's prepared entrance. The head sank in easily, both men sighed in relief at the familiar feeling. A bittersweet wave of pain filled Sherlock's belly as the pressure of John's cock filling him increased. He buried his face deeper into the pillow, biting it, and took several deep breaths through his nose.

John pushed all the way in without pausing, digging his fingers into the skin of Sherlock's hips and biting back a cry of pleasure that threatened to escape from his throat. When he was balls-deep inside him, John leaned forward and rested his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades. He gave them both a few seconds to relax, and then whispered into Sherlock's ear: "Come here", and wrapping his arms around the painter's chest, he sat back on his heels, pulled Sherlock with him to sit on his lap.

Sherlock let out a long moan, his own cock bounced heavily between his legs. He felt the heat of John's body pressing onto his back and the twitching of his dick buried deep inside his arse. John sucked hungrily on Sherlock's neck, hot, open-mouthed kisses leaving red marks on his milky skin. His hands moved down along the painter's ribs and rested on his hips, and Sherlock's body shivered as he slowly started to move on John's cock.

He rocked himself up and down on him, gradually speeding up the pace, John's hands on his hips steadying his movements. John panted into his neck and Sherlock could feet his heartbeat and shallow, rapid breathing as John's chest pressed even tighter against his back and his hips jerked to thrust into Sherlock's slickened hole.

The way Sherlock's bum was slamming against his thighs sent a pleasant heat right into John's pulsing cock. His head rested heavily on Sherlock's shoulder, and he moved his hands back up to his chest, embracing the painter's body with his arms, and pinning him harder down onto his dick.

Sherlock rolled his hips to feel John's erection entering him at a different angle. His legs trembled, but he didn't stop moving, riding John's cock, while his own prick was twitching, trail of precum smeared across the skin of his thigh.

"Oh God, J- John…" he groaned as he sank down onto John's dick again, and again, John's hips meeting his movements with frantic thrusts.  
"Shush…" John murmured, nipping at his earlobe, "someone may hear you."

Drops of sweat formed on Sherlock's skin and ran down to his belly, cool against his flushed cock. He closed his eyes and his head fell backwards, he felt the rush of blood pulsing in his ears.  
Then he felt John's palm wrapping around his aching cock, and, forgetting about John's warning, he moaned out loud with relief. John's other hand went to his mouth, Sherlock sticked out his tongue and half kissed-half licked his fingers as John's palm covered his lips.

John gripped Sherlock's cock firmly at the base, and then started to stroke him, slowly at first, but soon his hand was moving up and down his shaft in unison with his own dick thrusting into the painter's arse. His thumb spread the pearl of precum that formed at the tip of Sherlock's prick, and he felt Sherlock's hips jerking up to meet his strokes.

Sherlock's arse clenched tightly around John's cock, thrusts of his hips became more and more frantic. He felt his balls tighten and orgasm building low in his stomach. He fucked John's fist desperately, breathing heavily through his nose, hopeless groans muffled by John's hand covering his mouth.

"Oh y-yes, Sherlock… you're wonderful, so good, so good…" John mumbled into Sherlock's ear, his breath hitching. He placed a kiss on the painter's shoulder and rocked his hips to feel his cock burying deeper inside the welcoming hotness of his hole.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, his damp curls clinging to his forehead as he felt John thrusting into him and touching him was sweetly overwhelming. The head of his cock was slick and glistening with precum, John's hand pumping him, closer and closer to release. His arse felt stretched and sore, John's thick cock filling him, but it was the kind of pain that was only euphoric and intoxicating. Sherlock's hips jerked once again up into John's fist, and he whimpered weakly into John's other palm as he came, spilling ribbons of sperm onto his own thighs.

John felt how Sherlock's muscles tensed around him when the orgasm went through his body. He didn't stop thrusting into him, his hand stroking the painter's pulsing cock until the last drop of cum dripped onto his fingers. Sherlock's breath was hot against the skin of John's palm that still covered his mouth, as he heard the muffled moans escape his lips.

Sherlock's body softened, his spent cock became flaccid in John's hand, but he was still riding him, even though John could feel his legs shaking. The way his perfectly shaped buttocks were bouncing up and down on John's rock-hard erection soon brought the other man to the edge.

"Aghh yes, Sherlock…" John breathed, trying not to cry out his name, his hips ached to slam harder up into Sherlock's arse, "Yes, oh God, yes… _yes_."

He managed to take hold of Sherlock's hips, pinning him down onto his cock with the final thrust, as he came inside him. His hot sperm spurted, and his vision went white for several seconds. His whole body jolted with waves of blissful pleasure and he felt Sherlock's hands over his, still clutching at the painter's slender hips. Panting, he leaned against Sherlock's body, his muscles trembling and both of them fell numbly onto the mattress, their legs eventually failing to support them.

Sherlock whimpered softly when John's softening cock slid out of his hole, now dripping with his come. He laid on his side and John placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, snuggling up to his back. He felt John's arms wrapping around him, and his nose nuzzling into his neck, and he smiled, closing his eyes. John pulled the duvet around them, the lamp on the table started to burn out and soon its trembling light dimmed, the room sank into peaceful darkness.

Sherlock started to drift away, his body giving in to the familiar feeling of comfort in John's arms. His breath evened, and for the first time in weeks, he calmly began to fall asleep. But then John's voice came to him, dragging him back into consciousness.

"Remember when we were in Giverny with Monet?" John asked, bringing back this treasured memory again.  
"Mhmm," Sherlock murmured.  
"God, how I wanted to make love to you there. You were so beautiful with those lilies, smiling…" John lazily ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair.  
"You wanted to make love there? On the grass?" Sherlock chuckled.  
"Yes."  
"Well, that would be quite a view for old Claude."  
"Do you think he would paint us?"

Both of them burst into laughter. Giggling into pillows, John pulled the cover over their heads so they wouldn't be too loud.

"I'm glad you came here," John said eventually, when he managed to stop laughing, "It's so good to be with you again tonight, one more time…"  
"Wha… What do you mean _one more time_?" Sherlock rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows, and looked at John.  
"Um… this is why you came, isn't it?" John's voice became suddenly serious.  
"I came to take you back home… with me" Sherlock said after a longer pause.  
"Oh, Sherlock… I…" John sat up on a bed, "I thought I explained it to you… I'm sorry but… I really can't…" his voice started to crack.

Sherlock sat up as well and looked him in the eyes. John could feel them pierce him through the darkness.

"John, I came all the way from Paris to take you back, I can't… I'm not leaving without you."  
"Well, you can't stay here!" John snapped louder than he intended, "my father _know_s or at least suspects, this is serious Sherlock, this is dangerous" he added whispering again, "he _will_ put you on trial, I can't let it happen."  
"Then I won't stay in London and neither will you."  
"Sherlock… we've been through this already… we wouldn't be able to make a living, without my father's support I wouldn't have a single franc and-"  
"Ah, so _this_ is what this is all about" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, he jumped out of bed and started to collect his clothes abandoned on the floor.  
"What do you mean?" John followed him, putting on his dressing gown.  
"_This_" Sherlock waved his hand, and John looked around the room to see what he was referring to, "This was never about my safety, not even about yours, this was about _your money_ for the whole time."  
"I don't… what the hell are you implying?"  
"You were enjoying living with me as long as you didn't have to worry about money," Sherlock buttoned up his trousers and started putting on his shoes, "you liked going out with me, because it was your father who paid for all the alcohol and gambling, so you could show off in Montmartre. And he also paid for your fancy clothes and a private carriage and, of course, your luxurious house, where you could go when you got sick of my ordinary, indigent, little attic."  
"Sherlock I-"  
"But as soon as your father threatened you to take it all away, you didn't hesitate to leave me, and now I know why," Sherlock was now fully dressed, and he stepped closer to John, looking down on him, their faces so close he nearly brushed John's nose with his own when he barked, "because it was never a choice for you John, you only cared about money, you never cared about me… life with me meant nothing to you, I don't know how I could've been so blind. This is what has meaning to you," he stepped back and waved his hand around the room again, "your easy, pretty little life, with your silk dressing gown, double bed with carved headboard", Sherlock smirked mockingly, scanning John's figure from head to toe, "and of course, your sweet, beautiful wife," John sensed a pang of jealousy in Sherlock's voice, "this is all very convenient to you… why give it up for a poor painter who has nothing to offer."

"You know that this is not true," John said seriously, his palms clenching at his sides.  
"Isn't it? Then prove it," Sherlock crossed his arms at his chest.  
"I can't, Sherlock, I told you… I can't go back with you."  
"Well, you have to!"  
"Why do I _have to_?!"  
"Because I love you!"

John's eyes blew wide and his back immediately straightened, silence fell in the room. Sherlock's jaw clenched, his features tensed, and he shifted nervously, not taking his gaze off John though. John exhaled loudly and took a step forward, Sherlock didn't dare to move.

"Sherlock…" John breathed softly and rose his hand to touch Sherlock's arm, but the painter shrugged and stepped back, their hands only brushed.  
"The day after tomorrow" Sherlock said sharply and paused for a moment, " a train leaves from King's Cross, the day after tomorrow, 4:15 in the afternoon. I will be waiting there for you, but if you do not come, I will go back to Paris, and this _is_ a goodbye."

Sherlock didn't wait for John's response, he turned around and headed for the door. Before John shook out of his shock, Sherlock was already stepping out to the hall. John followed him, but when he reached the hall, he saw Sherlock's shadow disappearing on the stairs and moments later there was a click of the back door opening. John quickly returned to his bedroom and looked out of the window. Sherlock's tall figure disappeared in the garden and John couldn't spot him again.

He braced himself against the windowsill, his breath shaky, and stared into the night, trying to collect his thoughts and understand what had just happened. He stayed like this until the reddish morning sunlight crept into the room.

* * *

Ok, i swear to god, i wanted to make this chapter angst-free, i wanted it to be a little break for you guise, sweet and lovely sexy times… well i failed obviously. But fear not! We're close to the end, in fact, next week it'll be **the last update**.  
I know we still have 2 chapters to go, but i decided to publish chapters 10 and 11 **together**, on the same day, as chapter 11 is not really a proper chapter but an epilogue, and it's much shorter than other chapters. So next week the story ends with the two-part finale! See you :D x.


	10. Goodbye in London

When Harriet woke him up, he had to blink several times before he remembered where he was. Sharp pain went through his back when he moved, and he realized that he fell asleep in an armchair. He looked around his bedroom, still only half-conscious, noticing that it was already daylight.

"What's the time?" he asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, his voice hoarse.  
"Noon," Harried said, crouching next to the chair, "you slept here?"  
"Yeah, I… I stayed up late, I was reading and… must've fallen asleep" John lied quickly, massaging his stiff neck.  
"Morstans are coming for dinner at 3 o'clock, remember?"  
"Yes, I know," he stood up from the chair and moved towards his bed, "which gives me another three hours for a proper nap, so please, leave me alone for now."  
"Just don't be late. You know father doesn't like it," Harriet's voice revealed concern, but she didn't say anything else, quietly closing the door behind herself as she left.

John slipped into bed, stretching his aching back. He decided to go back to sleep so he didn't have to think about Sherlock's ultimatum just yet. It was almost physically painful to think about it all. It was hard enough to leave him for the first time, was he able to do that again? And if not, was he able to stand against his father? _No thinking. Not just yet_, John scolded himself in his mind and closed his eyes.

The sheets smelled like Sherlock.  
"Bloody hell" he cursed, out loud this time, and pushed away the duvet, crawling out of the bed.

He called for his butler to bring hot water to the bathing room and stripped from his dressing gown. Sighing with a relief he sat down in a bathtub, hot water soothing his aching muscles. He felt almost relaxed.

Clouds of steam filled the air. John rubbed his wounded shoulder, fingers tracing along the scared skin, and Sherlock's words crept into his mind: _It's a medal for your bravery._ He said that the first time they were together.

John closed his eyes and leaned back in the tub. _I have nothing to do with bravery_, he thought. In fact, John felt like a coward.

John was 14 when, for the first time, he felt that there was something wrong with him. Harriet was 18 and already getting married, and his father told him that, in a few years' time, he'll be looking for a wife himself. John thought about it for all night before Harriet's wedding, trying to imagine that the next day was supposed to be _his_ wedding, and he didn't really like the idea. He told his father about it, but Mr Watson only chuckled and petted his head, saying that he was still too young for this, and that, when the time comes, he'll change his mind. John believed him.

When John turned 15 his father decided that he was grown-up enough to have his personal footman, and so they hired one. Seeing Thomas for the first time, John felt something fluttering inside his belly. Thomas was a tall, dark-haired man in his twenties, he had almond-shaped, greenish eyes and a cheeky smile, and John shivered at the thought that this man will be helping him to dress and undress every day.

They became more than master and servant, they were friends. Thomas was clever, funny, and audacious, he had friends amongst servants in the most prominent households in London, so he always had lots of spicy gossip to share. He used to call John "young heir" in this honey syrup voice of his, and taught him how to play cricket.

One time John hurt his knee while they were playing in the garden. Sitting on the grass, he winced as Thomas' hands wrapped firmly around his leg, massaging his calf.  
"Does that hurt?" Thomas asked, and slipping one hand up along John's thigh, he gently unbent his leg.  
John only shook his head, not able to utter a word, as he felt something growing hard inside his trousers. The feeling became painfully uncomfortable when Thomas looked up at him and smiled, saying: "It's nothing, go upstairs, I will be there in a moment with a bandage."

After John was left alone in his room, with his leg wrapped tightly in bandage, he made sure that the door were closed, and he sat heavily on his bed. He hesitated for a moment before palming himself through his trousers, helpless moan escaping his throat as he cupped his growing erection. It only took a few desperate, incoherent rubs and John came in his pants, the ghosting of Thomas' hand still on his thigh. He liked that feeling, and as he came, he closed his eyes and imagined Thomas kneeling in front of him, his palm brushing along his leg up to his crotch. But after a few seconds, when John's breath evened, there was guilt. John was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to be like this. It scared him.

A couple of months later John heard his father commenting on something he read in the newspaper. John wasn't entirely sure what it was about, but apparently his father's old friend from Oxford was involved. Mr Watson seemed very outraged, so John didn't dare to ask him, but later, when Harriet and her husband, Timothy, came to dinner, John caught his sister alone in the hall.  
"What's sodomy?" he asked her, whispering, and when Harriet told him, he added, his eyes wide and voice shaky, "so this is… illegal?"  
Harried nodded. John felt disgusting.

After that, John tried to avoid Thomas, as much as he could. He was getting up early only to dress by himself, he didn't want to play cricket anymore, and he was doing everything not to be alone in the room with the other man. However, after a few weeks, John couldn't stand it anymore, and so he had stolen his father's diamond cufflinks and hid them in Thomas' room. When Thomas got fired, relief lasted only for a moment. John hated himself for what he did, and cursed himself for being such a coward. But he hated himself even more when he discovered, that it didn't change anything. He still felt what he felt, even when Thomas was not around anymore.

A few years later John noticed that his father started to invite guests for dinner unusually often. And all their guests happened to have young daughters. John panicked. At first he was pretending, trying to convince himself that he can do this, that he can be normal. But his father started to grow impatient, and so John decided to join the army.

Harriet was seeing him off when he boarded the ship to India. She kissed him goodbye, and said that she is proud to have such a valiant brother. But John didn't feel valiant at all. He was escaping, he was a coward.

When he came to Paris he abandoned any hope that he'll ever be happy. It wasn't easy but eventually, he had accepted his nature, as far as to realize that he couldn't change who he was. Whatever happened in India, between him and his fellow soldiers, stayed in India. None of them wanted to talk about it later, there was always only a cigarette in the morning and an overwhelming guilt. He knew he'll have to pretend for the rest of his life, fooling himself and others. He felt sick at the mere thought, he despised himself. That is, until he met Sherlock.

With Sherlock he didn't have to pretend, and, surprisingly, it didn't feel wrong, and there was no sense of self-loathing. For the first time in his life he felt accepted, he felt cared for. _How could it be wrong? How could it be disgusting? It's good, it's so good_, he thought after their first night together, when, instead of sitting on the edge of the bed with a cigarette in his hand and a headache, he lied next to Sherlock and caressed his milky skin with his thumb.

But then the letter came, and John was painfully brought back to earth. And he was so scared something may happen to Sherlock because of him, that he escaped once again. Once a coward, always a coward. Or is it?

The water in the bathtub went cold by the time John shook off his thoughts. He stepped out of it, toweling himself lazily, and wrapped himself in a soft dressing gown. He barely managed to get dressed when Harriet knocked at his door, calling for him to go downstairs, as Morstans' carriage stopped before the main entrance of their house.

The main conversation topic, as they were eating, was, unsurprisingly, the wedding. Flowers, to be precise. They had a florist scheduled for the next day, and Mary complained that she still couldn't decide if she preferred roses or lilies. _Lilies_. John swallowed loudly.

He got lost in his thoughts again, and then, the clock in the dining-room struck 4 o'clock. John's breath hitched and the spoon he was holding fell from his hand, landing on his plate with a clatter. His attempts not to think about the decision he needed to make caused him to forget, and in that moment, he brutally realized, that he had only one day, and that on this exact hour, on the next day, Sherlock will be waiting for him at the station. He had no idea what he should do.

"John!" he heard his father's voice, and he snapped out of the chaotic maze of thoughts. He looked at the gathering and saw that everybody was staring at him, spoons suspended mid-air on the way to their mouths.

"I'm sorry…" he mumbled, awkwardly standing up from his chair, "I won't be staying for tea, I… I have a headache, I need to lie down, sorry…" and with that, he left the dining-room and his startled guests.

It was less than an hour later when Harriet came upstairs to his bedroom. John was sitting on his bed, with his head in his hands, and he told his sister to go away, but she didn't listen.

"What's wrong?" she asked, sitting down onto the bed, next to him.  
"Nothing, I just… I have a headache, I told you."  
"You need to stop lying to me." Harriet sounded determined, but John didn't answer, "Whatever's the matter… you can tell me."  
"Nothing's the matter."  
"John, I can see that… the way you look at Mary, how you're avoiding father…," she swallowed, "you met someone in Paris, didn't you? And father doesn't approve. This is why he insisted on you coming back…"  
John looked her in the eyes and wondered how much she actually knew.  
"Yes," he admitted eventually.  
"So she isn't wealthy enough… not from a very prominent family, I suppose?" Harriet inquired.  
_'She'_, John thought, _so Harriet doesn't know… good, it's better that way_.  
"Yeah, something like that…," he answered, shrugging.  
"And so you left her? Just like this?" Harried said suddenly and John's mouth fell open in surprise.  
"Well, I hadn't much of a choice, don't you think?" he frowned.  
"John, father may be despotic, but he doesn't own you. How can you just blindly obey him?"  
"He does own me in a way, you know… he threatened to disinherit me. I'm a retired military officer, I wouldn't be able to make a living on my own, without his money I… I wouldn't have anything in Paris."  
"You would have _everything_ there!" Harriet's eyes widened, she leaned forward towards John and took hold of his hand, "Do you love Mary?" she asked simply.  
John only shook his head and mouthed a silent "No".  
"Do you love the one you left in Paris?"  
John's look escaped to the side, he breathed loudly before letting out an answer, his voice shaky: "Yes… oh my God, yes… I do," he looked up at Harriet again, his eyes went teary.  
"Well, then it's simple," she smiled at him.  
"But I…"  
"John…", Harriet squeezed his hand tighter, "I won't let my little brother repeat my mistakes. My heart is breaking when I see you so miserable. I don't want us to spend the rest of our lives looking at each other being unhappy."  
"I thought you and Timothy… you look happy together. Aren't you?" John asked with concern.  
"I suppose he is… content," Harriet said dryly, "thanks to my dowry he could open two new branches of his bank…"  
"Oh God. Harry, I'm so sorry, I didn't know…"  
"It's all right, John," she forced a smile, "but believe me when I tell you this: if you have a chance to go back… _do it_."  
"Father will never accept this," John shook his head with the last attempt to fool himself, to pretend, like he used to, "he doesn't think it's right for me."  
"There is nothing wrong with love, John" Harriet answered, and he shot a look at her, startled, because she spoke the words that he didn't even dare to think, all these years.

Before he was able to say anything more, the butler appeared in his room.  
"Sir, I apologize, I didn't mean to interrupt, but sir's father asks for you to come downstairs, the guests are leaving."  
"Oh, yes, I'll be right there," John stood up from the bed and turned to Harriet, "Are you coming?"  
"In a moment," she sent him a faint smile, and John nodded before he left.

Harriet brushed away a single tear that appeared in a corner of her eye. She straightened her dress, sniffled, and reached to the drawer of John's nightstand to find a handkerchief, but instead, she found a small, folded piece of paper.

...

It was another sleepless night for John. He had had his sheets changed, so the scent of Sherlock wouldn't haunt him, but it didn't help much. His thoughts were circulating around the events of the previous night and, more importantly, around his conversation with Harriet.

He had everything sorted out before, he thought he was doing the right thing, he was _convinced_ he was doing the right thing. After what Harriet told him… he wasn't so sure anymore.

It was never easy to leave Paris, but the thought that it was the only right thing to do, made it seem justified somehow. He believed it was for the best, now he wondered…

Was Sherlock right? Was he really so shallow and it was all about money all this time? Well, he was worried about making a living on his own, he never had to do that before, so it was obvious he wasn't sure if he could make it… That was what he was telling himself every day since he decided to come back to London. But maybe it was more than that? Maybe it really _was_ just more convenient for him. Was that better than being a coward?

He thought about Harriet. He had no idea she wasn't happy with Timothy. His heart clenched at the thought, it was an awful feeling. Was that how she felt about him? _I don't want us to spend the rest of our lives looking at each other being unhappy._

Harriet knew John would regret marrying Mary, she was speaking from her own experience. Wasn't that enough for him? Enough to just take the 4:15pm train and never come back to London…?

_Do you love the one you left in Paris?_ The answer, though at first came to him as a shock, was obvious now. So why was this still so hard?

By the time the morning light flickered through the curtains John had, if it was at all possible, even more at a loss what to do.

He crawled out of bed with a strong decision that he will not think about this for a couple of hours. He needed a break, those thoughts were chaotic and wearying, and it was definitely not helping with coming to any conclusion. Taking a walk, clearing his mind a bit, and coming back to the topic later, refreshed and calmed – that seemed like a good start.

He wandered aimlessly around the house for a while, hoping that maybe Harriet will wake up early and join him, but eventually he slipped quietly through the back door. Fresh air and the smell of morning dew blissfully made him forget, and for a moment his head felt lighter.

His father scolded him for being late for breakfast. John said nothing to him, sitting down quickly. He glanced searchingly at Harriet and her husband, sitting at the opposite end of the table. His sister answered with a weak smile before her eyes escaped his look. They didn't even finish eating when Mr Watson informed them that Mary will join them right after breakfast. He ordered his son to take care of her before they'll be ready to leave and see the florist. John completely forgot about that they were supposed to pick flowers for the wedding that day, he had more important things to think about. Harriet looked at him, rising her eyebrow, somehow expectantly, but John only nodded slightly and assured his father he'll take care of Mary.

John and Mary spent their early afternoon in a drawing-room. Mary liked to thump a piano while they were talking. John was sitting on a sofa next to her, looking at her intensely, while her delicate fingers were tracing piano keys, her soft, quiet voice floating somewhere around him as she spoke. He didn't listen to her though, he didn't really care what she was saying. He just looked at her and wondered if he could just leave her without any explanation and hurt her by doing this. It wasn't her fault, she was pushed into this by her parents, just like John was. John didn't mean to hurt her, but maybe the truth was, that he was really hurting her by carrying on with all this. By the time they were ready to go and see the florist, John figured out absolutely nothing.

They drove in silence. John, Mary, Harriet, and Mr Watson sat in a cabriolet carriage, none of them spoke since they left the florist shop. Mr Watson wasn't really chatty by nature, it was just the way he was, but the rest of them sensed some kind of tension filling the air, and so they remained silent. John tapped his leg with his fingers impatiently, his hand twitching. He could feel Harriet's look scanning him. The carriage was bouncing slightly and the interior resounded with the cacophony of the horses' hooves upon the cobbled streets.

They were just passing Saint Pancras Church on Euston Road when the bell of its single tower rang. John took out his pocket watch and looked at the time. It was 4 o'clock. _Oh my God._ He didn't know it was so late already.

He raised his head and shot a nervous look in the direction of the King's Cross station. It was barely visible from the distance, and partially obscured by the surrounding buildings, but finally John managed to catch a glimpse of its clock tower.

And in that moment, when it was either everything or nothing, John realized that he had known what to do all along.

He turned his head to look at Mary, his mouth opened and the words just came from him, his voice steady and firm.

"Mary… I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I can't… I can't marry you."  
"What?" Mary and Mr Watson said in unison, Harriet only inhaled loudly.  
"I'm really sorry, I wouldn't make you happy," John continued, taking Mary's hand, "I don't want to lie to you anymore, I don't want to hurt you, and if I stay with you I will do so. I hope you will forgive me one day."

Mary looked at him without a word, startled. Mr Watson spoke instead.  
"What is this nonsense?!" he rose his voice, and John looked at him instantly.  
"I'm going back to Paris" John said simply, corners of his mouth involuntarily twitching to smile which he couldn't, and didn't want to, suppress.  
"We spoke about this before and I believe I have made myself clear. You're not going anywhere, you'll stay here to marry Miss Morstan!"

John stood up from his seat unsteadily, trying to keep balance as the carriage was still moving.  
"I don't expect you to understand _or_ to forgive me, father."  
"You won't get a single penny from me if you go there against me," Mr Watson threatened once again.  
"I don't care," John said boldly and, at the sudden lightness in his chest, he knew he meant it.  
"I won't let you-"  
"Oh, for God's sake! Just let him go!" Harriet interrupted their father and stood up to face John, grabbing his arm to steady herself as the carriage took a turn.

"Go, John," Harriet said quietly, her eyes bright and smiling, "go", she repeated as she took his hand and John felt that she pushed something small into his palm, closing his fingers around it.  
Then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave him a quick, tight embrace before whispering into his ear "Goodbye."  
John looked her in the eyes and breathed a silent "Thank you" before turning around and jumping out of the carriage.

He ran down the street, manoeuvring between pedestrians, and squeezing his palm around the small object Harry placed there. Looking around to find the shortest way to the station, he didn't notice a man that walked from around the corner, and he ran into him. They both fell onto the ground, John cursed under his breath as he hit the pavement, the other man falling on top of him.

"Ouch, watch your steps, son," the man said, trying to get up.  
"I'm so sorry" John scrambled to his feet and grabbed stranger's hand, pulling him up, "I… I have a train to catch."  
"I'm fine, I'm fine" the other man straightened his clothes and waved his hand dismissively.  
John apologized once again and left him, quickly pacing across the street.  
"Oi, wait!" the stranger's voice reached him, and John turned around to see the man approaching him, "I think you dropped this," the man reached out his hand and held out a folded piece of paper.

John took it from him and froze, realizing that this was what Harriet handed him in the carriage. He unfolded it and looked down at the drawing of him and Sherlock: dark and sharp lines of Sherlock's face, chaotic waves of his hair, gentle curves of his almond-shaped eyes, looking at John with something… _Love_, John thought, and wondered how could he not have seen it earlier.

"Mate?" stranger's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, "Didn't you say something about a train?"  
"Oh!" John shot a feverish look at him and swung around, leaving the startled man behind.

As he finally reached King's Cross, John looked up at the clock above the entrance. _6 minutes to go_. Relief flooded his mind as ran into the station, knowing that he was not late just yet. He forgot to stop in front of the departures board so he just ran along the platforms, scanning faces in the crowd, looking for one face in particular.

Then, he saw him. Sherlock was standing at the other end of the platform, wearing a dark coat with a navy scarf around his neck. John ran through the crowd, even pushing some people out of his way, and then he stopped a few meters before Sherlock, somehow not daring to step closer. Hands of the clock showed 4:13pm.

"Sherlock," John breathed, panting heavily, and the other man turned around to face him.  
"You came," Sherlock said quietly, sounding almost surprised.  
"Yeah…" John was still trying to catch his breath.

They were looking at each other, silent, for a longer while. The guard blew a whistle, signalizing that the train was ready to leave. John took a small, uncertain step towards Sherlock.

"I… I love you, Sherlock. I love you," he said, his voice steady.

Sherlock's lips twitched slightly in a careful smile and he realized that he was holding his breath.  
John let out a breathy laugh and added "I have nothing. Nothing, just the clothes on my back and… and this", he handed Sherlock the drawing.

Sherlock took it from John's hand and, looking down at the sketch, he smiled warmly.  
"Well…" he said eventually, looking back at John, "I have a little room in the attic and… a couple of paintbrushes."

John stepped closer and took hold of Sherlock's hand. He tangled their fingers together, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's. The second whistle sounded.

"I think this is a pretty good start. Let's go home."

* * *

In case anyone wonders - I confirm. John's first crush, Thomas the footman, was based on Thomas Barrow from Downton Abbey (I have a bit of a crush on him myself). so, dearest readers, were you worried a bit while reading this chapter? i was very nervous while writing, and i knew how it'd end so... this is seriously one of my favourite chapters. 


	11. Epilogue - What Really Matters

Autumn was warm and only a little bit rainy. The golden glow of the sun rested on the colourful leaves, a gentle wind blowing them off the trees and making them dance and swirl playfully in the air.

John opened his eyes lazily, seeing raindrops hit and then flow down the windowpanes, and damp, gold leaves stuck to the glass. His half-conscious mind instinctively headed to London, but then, as he fully woke up, he saw the narrow rooftops behind the window, and paintbrushes scattered on the windowsill.

The bed felt empty, so he rolled onto his stomach and propped himself on his elbows, looking around the atelier. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, curled in front of a canvas, with one paintbrush in his hand, and another stuck behind his ear. John looked at him for several minutes without saying anything. Sherlock's dark curls fell in front of his eyes, he bit at his lower lip, his fingers already dirty with paint. John thought that he was enchantingly beautiful like this.

"Why aren't you in bed with me?" John asked eventually.  
"You seemed to have dozed off right after…," Sherlock smirked, not looking away from the canvas, "I got a bit bored. It's still early so I thought I could paint something. The light is good."

John crawled out of bed, wrapping the sheet around his naked body, and sat next to Sherlock on the floor.  
"_Something_?" he said, looking at the painting, "it's me," he added with amusement, "so now you're not only staring at me when I sleep, but you also paint me like this?"  
"Well… I liked how you looked. Besides, I still can't get over the one I had to sell," Sherlock explained, finally glancing at John.

John took a paintbrush from behind Sherlock's ear, dipped it in paint, and began to paint short, thin lines, narrowing his eyes with focus.  
"Honestly, Sherlock, you have to be more realistic" John chuckled softly, "I have much more wrinkles around my mouth."  
Sherlock let out a breathy laugh and put away his own paintbrush, taking hold of John's hand. He wrapped his fingers tenderly around John's and led his palm to smear the paint lightly on the canvas.  
"Remember, John, a gentle movement of the wrist," the painter instructed as their joined hands moved slowly in unison.  
"This one is actually pretty good", John smiled warmly, "maybe this time we will make it into the Louvre."

Sherlock looked away from the painting to gaze at John. He marvelled at how the other man's face lightened up, his eyes smiling along with his mouth, as always when they were painting together. Then he looked up, above John's head, to see the purplish shade of the evening sky through the window. He thought that somewhere out there, hidden behind the never-ending roofs of Paris, is the Louvre, and he honestly couldn't care less. He looked back at John, loosening his grip on his hand, letting him lead.

"I like what you did with the light here," John waved his other hand, gesturing towards the painting, "It looks so soft, I love it." He turned his head to look at Sherlock, their eyes met, "I love _you_."  
Sherlock leaned in and pressed their lips together, tilting his head slightly. John felt Sherlock's fingers tightening around his own as they kissed, nipping lazily at each other's parted lips, breathing hotly into each other mouths.  
"I love you too," Sherlock whispered when the kiss broke; and then he realized, with more than just a little surprise, that there are things that matter even more than art.

They were sitting like this for hours. Sun has set, and it got colder, so John settled himself behind Sherlock, and wrapped the sheet around the both of them. Leading each other's hands they were painting until the last candle burnt out, and the atelier sank into the soft darkness of a starry Parisian night.

THE END

* * *

oh my God, this is it.  
the end of the story.

it's such a good feeling to have it complete, but i will also miss it greatly.  
i fell in love with this universe...

thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed it, as this fic has become my precious baby 3

okay. the end.

*cries*


End file.
